


Blue Bird

by its_noma



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: I'll tag the smut chapter(s) when we get there, M/M, Slow Burn, slight bichie but it's basically bromance, there's gonna be sexual stuff but not for a REALLY LONG TIME, this is my first ever fic for the IT fandom yahoo, this is such a slow burn I’m so sorry this is going to be such a long ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-04-08 13:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14106525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_noma/pseuds/its_noma
Summary: There is no way you could convince him to seriously like his job. He could live without it. Well, okay, he really can’t, but you get what he means. Stan needs the job but doesn’t want it is how he’d put it. He’s been looking for other places to work for months, but none pay as much as the one he has now.Stanley Uris is a male stripper.Stanley Uris hates his job.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever creation for the IT fandom and I'm pretty excited! I haven't written in a long time, but I'm happy to be writing again. :) Sorry if it's ass lmao.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan gets off of work and he's not happy.

Stan gets off of work at his usual time: 1:30 AM. He’s tired, he’s sweaty, and he smells like alcohol and an awful amount of dizzying perfume. He’s a bit angry at the moment, but he’s not exactly sure why. There were lots of reasons: the guy that groped him without his permission, one of his coworkers trying to steal his clothes from his bag, his manager being a dick like usual…there were a lot of reasons why he could be mad. They were all perfectly reasonable. 

There is no way you could convince him to seriously  _ like  _ his job. He could live without it. Well, okay, he really can’t, but you get what he means. Stan needs the job but doesn’t want it is how he’d put it. He’s been looking for other places to work for months, but none pay as much as the one he has now. 

Stanley Uris is a male stripper. 

Stanley Uris hates his job. 

Sure, you could  _ pay  _ him to  _ pretend  _ to like his job. But that wouldn’t be the same as actually enjoying it. Stan just needs the money; college is expensive and this is the highest paying job he could find. 

He slings his bag across his shoulders with a sigh. He has a 9 AM class tomorrow and would like to get at least his usual eight hours of sleep, but when he gets back he’ll need to shower and get ready for bed, so the odds of him actually getting eight hours of sleep is pretty slim. The perks of being a male stripper: the building he works at is out of town and he doesn’t have a car. 

Now, usually he’d call one of the losers to come pick him up. Normally he  _ would  _ do that. But then he’d have to answer why he’s out of town, not to mention so late at night, smelling like a whore house on a Thursday night, technically Friday morning. Yeah, that’s not happening. 

So he walks down to the bus stop a few blocks down and waits for one of the few buses still running at this hour. It takes fifteen minutes for one to actually stop, and Stan muses that it would’ve ran right past if nobody was there. He doesn’t know enough about the public buses to know if they actually do that or not. 

He steps into the bus, welcoming the little warmth it provides. He pays his fare, not looking at the bus driver as he does so. He chances a glance afterward, only to find the driver glaring at him, nose scrunched up and eyes darting down to his bag and back up at his face. Stan turns and moves to the back of the bus to avoid the old man’s scrutinizing glare. 

The ride takes Stan to the bus station beside a gas station barely in the next town over, and he has to repeat the process into the town his college is in. He wishes the buses travelled further into town but wasn’t going to push his luck; having a bus that even took him into it from a separate town entirely was good enough. Though, he thinks bitterly, half of his pay is spent just in paying for bus fare. 

The walk back to the dormitory is cold and uneventful. Stan stuffs his hands into his pockets for warmth, staring ahead and occasionally looking around to see if anyone is around. Usually nobody is around, but he  _ always  _ has to look just in case. 

With a hum Stan scans his student ID card in front of the scanner next to the dorm’s front doors. It beeps three times before he hears the doors unlock with a light click. He pushes open the right door and hurriedly makes his way up to his room. 

Hopefully his roommate is asleep, or better yet, not even there. He doesn’t even know the name of his roommate, just that he partied out late and slept the entire day away. It bothered Stan, but at least he never had to interact with the guy. He always smells of alcohol and drugs, and his side of the room is the messiest he’s ever seen since Richie’s. Luckily the guy doesn’t care that much that he organizes his side and washes his laundry for him. 

Luckily for him, his roommate is once again vacant. Stan sighs in relief as he closes the door, setting his bag down on his desk. He peers over at his roommate’s side of the room, narrowing his eyes on the white piece of paper on his pillowcase. 

Curiously, Stan walks over and picks it up. It looks like the corner of a piece of notebook paper, and one glance around the room finds him staring at his own notebook, haphazardly thrown under his bed, to find the source. He huffs in annoyance, feeling his anger rise as he bends over and grabs his notebook. The page it’s flipped to is luckily the only damage it has. 

With an infuriated huff, he sets his notebook on his desk by his bag and reads the note. All it says is  _ I’ll be back after your class is over _ , followed underneath it by  _ can you wash my sheets?  _ with a crude drawing beside it. Stan glances over at his roommate’s bed and the rumpled up sheets. His nose scrunches up in disgust; at least he hasn’t thought to ruin  _ Stan’s  _ sheets. 

He goes through his night routine without thinking much of it. He takes a shower and washes his hair three times, his body only once after. After, he towels himself off with two towels and dries his hair in another. He proceeds to drink some water before brushing his teeth and rinsing it with mouthwash. Then he puts on his pajamas, a matching set of plain light blue. 

When he leaves the bathroom he and his roommate share, his eyes are droopy and he’s tired. He removes his work clothes from his bag, setting them in his dirty clothes hamper underneath his everyday clothes before plugging in his phone, alarms set to 7:50, 7:55, and 8:00 AM. Once Stan is comfortable and situated in his bed, it doesn’t take him long to fall asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the story, talk to me about it on my Tumblr ([its-noma](https://its-noma.tumblr.com/))!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill wakes up to find that Richie has a plan for them.

Bill wakes up to the sound of running water. He slowly opens his eyes, having to bring a hand up to shield his eyes when he sees the window beside the closed bathroom door isn’t covered by the blinds. He rolls over to face away from it, fishing around under his pillow for his phone. 

It’s 6:35 AM. God, he loves Eddie to death, he’s his best friend for crying out loud, but could the guy not wake up so early? Bill had his schedule memorized by now and knew he didn’t have a class until ten, scheduled right before lunch with the others. Would it hurt Eddie to sleep in a little? 

With the water running in the background, it’s easy to fall back into a comfortable sleep. Sadly it isn’t deep and only lasts for the fifteen minutes Eddie spends in the shower. Then the water is being turned off, and Bill listens loosely to Eddie stepping out and going through his morning routine. 

By the time Eddie is out of the bathroom it’s five past seven and Bill is out of bed, stretching out his back and popping his shoulders above his head. Eddie scrunches up his nose and jabs at Bill’s ribs while they’re unprotected. 

“Ow! G-geez, Eddie, what’s up w-w-with you?” Bill exclaims, bringing his arms down to shield him when Eddie raises his hand again. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You know I hate it when you crack your joints around me, Bill! Couldn’t you do that while I was in the shower?” 

“I was t-trying to sleep,” Bill replies. “Not everyone is a-a-a morning person.” 

“And yet you’re awake,” Eddie says. 

“You taking a shower w-woke me up.” Bill laughs as Eddie rolls his eyes again but smiles. 

He grabs a clean hoodie and pair of jeans and underwear before making his way into the bathroom. Eddie calls out to him that he’s going to meet Mike for breakfast as Bill gets undressed. Bill shouts back an affirmative and waits to hear the door shut and relock before turning on the shower. 

The water is lukewarm. Bill curses quietly, wishing the building had warmer water sometimes. It usually isn’t that bad, but it’s always pretty shitty after someone else has taken a shower. Maybe if he really wanted a hot shower he’d wake up before Eddie. 

Yeah…that was never going to happen. 

Bill  _ used  _ to be a morning person, when he was younger. Georgie would always get up early just to bother him since he hated waking up so early. Bill would always wake up just five minutes earlier than when Georgie would come in so he could jump out at him from behind the door. It would scare Georgie so bad sometimes he’d fall over and almost cry, but Bill always made up for it by making them breakfast before their parents woke up. 

He supposes he’d stuck with the morning person routine for a couple more years after Georgie died, but it was never the same. He’d wake up and would wait for those five minutes, but Georgie never appeared in his doorway. He’d never made breakfast with someone since. 

Bill towels off slowly, the semi-warm water making his movements sluggish. He doesn’t have any classes until two, so maybe he could just go back to sleep until lunch? 

Once he’s out of the bathroom, only in briefs just in case he actually wants to go back to sleep, he unplugs his phone and checks the time. There are a few notifications from the others messaging in their group chat, followed by a few texts from Richie. 

**Trashmouth** : 

_ billy willy foe filly _

**Trashmouth** : 

_ Big Bill my love _

**Trashmouth** : 

_ BILL THIS IS AN EMERGENCY _

**Trashmouth** : 

_ I KNOW UR AWAKE I JUST SAW EDDIE WITH MIKE _

**Trashmouth** : 

_ I can’t believe ur disrespecting me like this really? really? in my own house? I have to say im offended billiam  _

Bill snorts, rolling his eyes. Typical Richie Tozier. 

**Big Bill** : 

_ I just got out of the shower Richie what do you want _

**Trashmouth** : 

_ oh billiam william I knew u loved me _

**Big Bill** : 

_ Love is a bit of an overstatement don’t you think? _

**Trashmouth** : 

_ wow I take that back. u really know how to wound a man bill _

**Trashmouth** : 

_ anyway so I'm outside ur dorm rn _

Bill’s head shoots up, staring at the door. Sure enough, he hears Richie’s foot tapping on the ground and the laugh he receives as Bill groans. 

“Way to l-let me know, R-Rich,” he calls out. 

Richie laughs again from behind the door. “Gonna let me in, Big Bill? It’s lonely out here.” 

“I’m not dressed,” Bill replies, even as he’s walking over to open the door. 

“So?” Richie says. “That’s never stopped me before!” 

“No, it h-h-hasn’t,” he agrees. 

He opens the door and moves aside, not wanting to risk if someone else in the hallway and sees him. He furrows his brows at Richie, who raises his eyes from his phone with a lopsided smile. 

“Billiam! Great to see ya,” he greets in a semi-decent, semi-terrible Irish accent. He steps into the room. “How’ve you been?” 

“Great,” Bill replies as he shuts the door. “What b-brings you to my d-dorm, Tozier?” 

Richie plops down on Eddie’s bed, and Bill cringes. Richie knows well enough that Eddie hates it when other people lay on his bed, especially without permission. Bill is glad Eddie is out with Mike so he’ll never have to know. 

“Relax, Billy, I’ll smoothen out the sheets for him later,” Richie says. “But that’s besides the point. Billiam! Get dressed in something nice because tonight I am taking you out.” 

Bill raises a brow at him. “Richie, as much as I love you, that d-d-doesn’t really stretch beyond w-weirdly comfortable levels of friendship—” 

“Oh no, Bill! This isn’t about our undying love for each other,” Richie exclaims, pressing his hands to his chest. “Though I  _ am  _ flattered! Maybe I should clear up a spot for dinner tonight, just me and you—” 

“Beep beep, R-Richie,” Bill says in between laughter. 

Richie sighs, dropping his hands. 

“None of you take my love seriously,” he laments dramatically, flopping onto his back, nearly hitting his head against the wall. “I declare my love for you guys  _ all the time _ , but nobody says it back! It’s so depressing, I might die right here on Eddie’s bed.” 

“You know we l-love you, Rich,” Bill tells him. 

Richie watches as he grabs the jeans he set on his bed earlier. Bill can feel his stare as he slides them up his legs and fastens them with a belt. 

“Yeah,” Richie says, sounding distracted. Bill rolls his eyes as he grabs a t-shirt. “But none of you ever say it back!” 

“It back,” Bill says. 

“Oh, fuck you, Bill!” 

Bill laughs as he slides on the t-shirt and then his hoodie. He turns around and walks back into the bathroom to finish his routine, not even phased when Richie gets up and follows him. Bill begins brushing his teeth as Richie hops up onto the counter. 

“But anyway, what I’ve been trying to say is that I’m taking you out to a strip club,” Richie says conversationally, as if that wasn’t one of the most bizarre things Bill has ever heard. 

Luckily Bill is used to most of Richie’s weird comments, or he most likely would have spit out his toothpaste all over the mirror. 

Instead his eyes widen, and he spits out his toothpaste into the sink to exclaim, “W-what?” 

“You need to meet a loose man, Billiam!” Richie explains, as if that’s an adequate explanation. “Or a loose woman, I don’t care who you fancy! But I’m sick of seeing you single and also—oh, I’m almost too sad to say it but—a virgin! You need to get laid, Big Bill!” 

Bill feels his face heat up, ears tingling as he responds, “Richie, I a-a-appreciate your concern, but I’m not d-doing that.” 

“And why not?” Richie all but whines, leaning into his space. Bill continues to brush his teeth. “No, Billiam, I need an actual explanation, or I’m not letting you back out!” 

Bill finishes brushing his teeth, and after he’s done rinsing out his mouth he levels Richie with a deadpan stare. 

“You’re not g-going to drop it, are you, Rich?” he asks. 

Richie shrugs. “Probably not. But Bill! Just this once! Then I won’t make you step foot in a strip club ever again!” 

Bill knows he’s not going to be able to convince Richie to leave him alone about this. Once Richie has an idea, something he wants to do, there’s no stopping him from doing it. Well, unless you’re Beverly, who’s unsurprisingly able to reign him in at any given time. Given how much time Ben spends with her, he’s pretty good at settling Richie down too. 

Bill? He’s good at stalling, but the actual cancellation of something is something he’s only half grasped. He’s too used to indulging Richie at this point. 

“Alright, f-f-fine,” he agrees with a resigned sigh. “I g-g-guess I’ll go.” 

Richie raises his arm, fist bumping the air. Bill rolls his eyes and combs his hair into place before taking his leave out of the bathroom, and Richie squawks when he turns the light off on him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the story, talk to me about it on my Tumblr ([its-noma](https://its-noma.tumblr.com/))!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan waits for the other losers to show up to eat lunch. Shenanigans ensue.

Stan is the first one to arrive at the communal cafeteria out of all of the other losers. He can’t say he’s not surprised since he has a system going on, but once in a while it’d be nice not to have to wait for the others to get here before heading out to lunch at a place that’s actually good. 

_ Well, _ Stan thinks,  _ the food here isn’t actually half bad. _ It’s just the same selection of foods all the time, and Stan needs his food to be kosher, so there was little he could actually eat here. He liked to frequent the little restaurant a few blocks down from the science building instead. 

He pulls out his phone and takes a seat at a nearby empty table. He’ll be here for a while, so he might as well take a seat and get comfortable. 

It surprisingly doesn’t take a while for some of the losers to show up. Eddie shows up with Beverly, and Stan thinks tiredly that they just came from some sort of medical class. He hides a yawn behind one of his hands. He really should switch his hours to get just a  _ little  _ more sleep. Not running on eight hours is so exhausting. He doesn’t know how the others can run on less than that. For crying out loud, Richie probably sleeps two hours a night on a  _ good  _ night! 

“Tired, Stan?” Beverly asks, taking a seat across from him. Eddie plops down beside her. 

“You could say that,” Stan replies. 

Eddie narrows his eyes at him. “What were you doing that made you lose sleep?” 

“Studying,” Stan responds, wondering if he could pass off his lie well enough. “I kept on snoozing the alarms I had set because I wanted to get a little more in.” 

Beverly laughs, saying, “That sounds like you. But you should get more sleep! I can see the bags forming under your eyes already.” 

“What, these old things?” Stan asks, acting appalled as he points just below his eyes. “I’ve had these for years, Bev, how could you not notice them before?” 

“Because you hide them behind makeup,” Eddie drawls. “That’s what a lot of old people do, you know.” 

Stan’s mouth falls open incredulously, and Beverly bursts out laughing. Eddie begins chuckling, and Stan shuts his mouth with a huff. 

“I’m not even the oldest one out of all of us, you—” he begins. 

He’s cut off when a hand claps down on his shoulder and, in a moment of weakness, he shrieks and jabs the person behind him hard in the stomach. Stan whips his head around and finds Richie doubling over, coughing as he clutches his stomach. Bill is soon standing beside him. 

“I’ve been injured!” Richie yells out, and Eddie attempts to shush him as Beverly and Bill begin laughing. “Mistah Uris, how could you? I really thought we had something!” 

Stan slumps down in his seat, trying to hide as other students in the cafeteria turn to see what all the commotion is about. Bill rests an arm over Richie’s shoulders, his other hand moving to cover the hand Richie is using to clutch his stomach. He pulls Richie up, who slumps against him. 

Stan can’t help but watch just how easy it is for Bill to hold up someone as tall and lanky as Richie. Sure, he can support Richie too, but after a while he gets tired and just drops him. But Bill? He doesn’t look phased at all; he could probably carry Richie all day and not get tired. 

“What’s happening over here?” Mike’s voice cuts through Stan’s thoughts, and he flushes when he realizes he’s been staring at Bill. Luckily he hasn’t noticed yet. “Who socked Richie?” 

Eddie gets up out of his seat to greet Mike as Beverly says, fighting off laughter, “You’ll never believe it, Mike! Richie and Bill were walking over from behind Stan, and he—” She has to stop to laugh a little, clutching her stomach. “Richie put his hand on Stan’s shoulder and Stan  _ shrieked  _ and hit him!” 

“ _ Stan  _ did?” Mike incredulously asks, raising a brow. 

Eddie nods, grabbing Mike’s hand and pulling him down to sit beside him. “Yeah. Stan hasn’t been getting a lot of sleep so he’s jumpy.” 

“Is nobody going to even ask if I’m  _ okay _ ?” Richie bellows, and Bill grips his shoulders tighter as Richie leans forward to say in a horrible Southern accent, “This is an blasphemy! I can’t believe none of you care about me!” 

“You know w-we care about you, R-Richie,” Bill tells him. 

Richie glares at him. “Yeah, uh-huh, that’s what you said earlier! But look! No one cares!” 

“Are you okay, Richie?” Ben asks from behind them. 

Richie nearly takes out Bill as he spins around, completely forgetting about getting punched by Stan. Stan exhales in exasperation, watching as Richie practically pounces on Ben, twirling him around before setting him down. 

“Ben! My hero!” Richie exclaims, and Ben wraps his arms around Richie to keep from falling over, suddenly dizzy. “See, everyone? Ben is the only one who cares about me!” 

“That’s because he spends the least amount of time with you,” Stan comments with a roll of his eyes. 

Richie gasps, too exaggerated to be real, and pulls Ben impossibly closer. Ben laughs and allows it, and Stan wonders how on earth he hasn’t pushed Richie away by now. 

“Excuse you, Stanthony?” he cries out, and Eddie grumbles for him to shut up. “You too, Eds! I spend the most amount of time with Ben aside from you too!” 

“I’m sorry, Ben,” Stan apologizes, to which everyone laughs except Richie. 

“Hey,” Beverly drawls, standing up and brushing off her jeans. “As much as I’d love to keep using Richie as my personal punching bag,” Richie squawks in indignation, “I’m hungry as fuck. Let’s go eat!” 

There’s a chorus of agreement. Richie grumbles as he lets go of Ben, who pats him on the back and says something Stan doesn’t quite catch. From the happy smile that spreads across Richie’s face, Stan guesses it was something nice. 

He gets up and pats down the wrinkles that have formed on his chinos. Beverly takes the lead out the doors, and soon everyone is either falling into twos or threes to fit onto the sidewalk. Ben catches up to Beverly, Eddie and Mike walk together, and Stan is stuck with Richie and Bill. 

Stan is zoned out, too busy thinking about his upcoming tests next week to contribute to any kind of conversation. He wonders what his schedule for work will look like next week. Maybe he could somehow talk his manager into giving him an earlier shift. Not even a big change! Just an hour earlier so he can get back the hour he’s been losing. 

He’s so engrossed in thinking of ways to sweet talk his boss that he doesn’t hear when Richie asks, “Stan, you wanna come with us?” 

He doesn’t say anything, trying to process the question and get out of his thoughts. A hand is waved in front of his face, and Stan smacks it away when he sees it’s Richie’s hand.  

Richie nurses his hand and whines, “Stan my Man, you can’t keep abusing me like this! Think of the kids!” 

“If we were to ever have kids I’d divorce you and take them with me,” Stan deadpans. 

Bill snickers from Richie’s other side. Richie whips his head around, and Stan muses if he’s ever given himself whiplash from turning so quickly.  _ He probably has,  _ he thinks amusedly. 

“Where are you guys going?” he asks. 

Richie turns back to face him after glaring at Bill. 

“We’re going to a strip club!” he exclaims, and Bill shushes him even though it’s too late, pedestrians on the street giving them quick little glances. “You wanna come, Bird Boy?” 

Stan doesn’t respond for a minute. His mind is working a million miles a minute as he comprehends Richie’s declaration. 

A…strip club. Richie and Bill are going to a strip club. 

…Stan works at a strip club. 

Oh, Stan is  _ fucked.  _

“Why would I ever go to a strip club?” he says instead, trying to pull together the best disgusted look he can manage. “Do you know how sleazy the men that go there are? They have absolutely  _ no  _ respect for the workers! Plus, it’s filthy there! It reeks and—” 

“Woah, you’re talking as if you’ve  _ been there _ before, Stanny Boy!” Richie says, eyebrows raised at him. Even Bill is staring at him in surprise. “Whenever did you go and lose your pretty little innocence, hm?” 

Richie throws an arm over Stan’s shoulders, drawing him closer. Stan snaps at him to let him go, finding walking to be a lot weirder than it was before. Richie merely tuts at him. 

“No, Stanthony, you must tell me your tales!” he urges. “Come on, even Bill wants to know!” 

Stan rolls his eyes and looks over at Bill in the hopes he’ll tell Richie to knock it off. When their eyes meet, Stan’s widen to how curious and  _ interested  _ Bill looks. Bill quickly looks away and clears his throat. 

“B-b-beep beep, Richie,” he says, grinning at Richie’s responding groan. 

“I don’t have any tales to tell,” Stan explains as he shoves Richie’s arm off him. “I’ve heard enough to know that strip clubs are disgusting.”  _ I  _ know  _ enough to know that strip clubs are disgusting.  _

Richie pouts. “And here I thought our innocent Bird Boy had popped his cherry.” He continues in an accent Stan can’t pinpoint, “What a shame! I can’t believe I’m standing in between two hopeless virgins.” 

Stan rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. Leave it to Richie to overshare facts about others. Maybe Stan should get laid just so he can shut Richie up next time. 

The others are slowing to a stop ahead of them, turning to wait as they approach the diner. Richie looks back over at Stan. 

“So you’re not coming with us?” he asks. 

Stan scoffs. “Never in a million years. Where are you even going? There isn’t one in town.” 

Richie eyes him warily. “Hmm. No, there isn’t one in town. Keen eye, Uris! We’re going to one a few towns over.” 

“A name would be nice so I’ll know where to pick you two dumbasses up,” Stan says. 

“You d-don’t even have a c-car,” Bill points out. 

Stan sticks his middle finger up at him, and Bill chuckles. Richie pushes Stan’s hand back down by his side with a laugh. 

“It’s called Cockring,” he explains, and Stan has to groan in disgust at such a terrible name. “No, Stanthony, that name is  _ golden _ ! It really  _ comes  _ from the heart!” 

“Enough, enough,” Stan says between fake gagging. 

The three meet up with the other four, who make similar remarks about them walking so slow. Richie barks back that he has long legs to walk leisurely, not quickly, and Stan scoffs and tells him that makes no sense. 

“Oh yeah, Uris? I’ll over here over six foot and how tall are you?” Richie asks mockingly, cupping a hand around his ear. “Oh, that’s right! Five seven! I don’t wanna hear your talk.” 

“Low b-blow,” Bill says, biting down on his lip to hide his grin. 

Stan gives him a betrayed look, and Ben simply pats him on the back, urging them all into the diner with a quiet, “Guys, this is a  _ sidewalk _ we’re on.” 

They all crowd into a booth that’s most definitely too small to fit seven, but they make it work. Eddie is content sliding into Mike’s lap, and Richie, at first, threw himself over Beverly and Ben’s legs before gingerly setting his legs on either side of Ben’s front and back to give them more room. That left enough room for Bill and Stan to slide in across from them next to Mike and Eddie. 

“You don’t have to sit like that, you dumbass,” Beverly tells Richie. 

“Oh no, my dear Bevvy! I must,” Richie declares, draping himself over Ben. “Ben is the only one who cares about me, so I must show him how much I care about him!” 

“For crying out loud, we all give a shit about you,” Eddie snaps, huffing in annoyance. 

Stan rolls his eyes as the bickering continues for a few more minutes. He almost sighs aloud in complete and utter thankfulness when he sees a waitress walking over to where they’re sitting. Bill chuckles beside him. 

They’ve all been there enough times by now that they all know what they want to order when the waitress asks if they need time to look over the menu. Stan grimaces to Richie’s yet again disgustingly awful order and feels himself lose half his appetite just from hearing Richie explain what he wants. When it’s Stan’s turn to order, he orders lighter than he was going to just to help balance their orders out. 

“Your order is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of,” Stan immediately says once the waitress is out of earshot. 

“Oh, pish posh, Mr. Uris,” Richie replies in an odd Australian-British accent. “You don’t know what you’re missing!” 

“I know  _ exactly  _ what I’m missing,” he says slowly, as if talking to a child. “You  _ just  _ said it.” 

“Quit the b-b-bickering, you two,” Bill butts in, and Stan looks over at him when a hand is pressed gently against his thigh. 

Stan finds himself staring at Bill’s lopsided smile for a beat too long and turns his gaze back down, feeling his face heat up as he stares at how big Bill’s hand is against his thigh. 

What is  _ up  _ with him today? 

He falls into a sort of silence stupor, half paying attention to the conversations the others are having around him. Sometimes they’d ask a question, and he’d give a half-assed answer, and they would move on. 

Bill’s hand is still on Stan’s thigh. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t squeeze. It just lays on his thigh, exuding warmth through his pants to heat up his leg. Stan feels the heat rush to his face and can’t look at Bill until he removes his hand when their food arrives. Even then it feels too weird to even glance at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the story, talk to me about it on my Tumblr ([its-noma](https://its-noma.tumblr.com/))!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Richie and Bill to go to the strip club! Bill is more nervous than he thought.

Bill can’t help but chuckle as he watches Richie bounce up and down as they leave Bill and Eddie’s dorm, then full out laughs when Richie trips on one of his loose shoelaces and rams his side into the wall. He covers his mouth when he hears someone shout to knock it off, trying to stop his laughter as Richie shouts, “Ay, fuck off!” 

“I duh-d-don’t see why you’re so excited, R-Rich,” Bill says in amusement. 

Richie rubs his arm as he turns to him. “Why  _ wouldn’t  _ I be excited? I’m taking you to a strip club for the first time! This is so exciting! I can’t wait to be the only one to see how you’ll react when we first walk in.” 

“If I end up huh-h-hating it, we’re leaving,” Bill sternly tells him. 

Richie slings an arm around his shoulders, ruffing up his hair. “Relax, Big Bill, I know my limits.” 

“I sure h-hope so,” Bill responds, “because it d-d-doesn’t sound like you do half the time.” 

Richie gasps in indignation. “How  _ dare  _ you, Mistah Denbrough! I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions and being wise as shit.” 

“Sure you are,” Bill says with a chuckle. 

The two make their way down the stairs and out the lobby doors. The cold night air burns Bill’s cheeks, and suddenly he feels the desperate need to go back inside. It’s late and cold and Bill doesn’t know if he’ll enjoy this night out or not. 

“So n-nobody else w-wanted to go?” he inquires as they walk down the sidewalk to the student parking lot. 

“Unfortunately, yeah,” Richie answers. “You and I both know about Stan not wanting to go—I’m still wondering  _ how  _ he knew there wasn’t one in town—and Eddie and Mike are having a study date.” 

“As we saw,” Bill affirms. 

“Yeah, and Bev and Ben didn’t wanna go either,” Richie all but whines. “I was really looking forward to Ben going! I’ve gone out with Bev before but Ben is an innocent boy.” 

Bill looks over at him and laughs at Richie’s moping expression. “What’s w-with you and wanting to get rid of people’s i-innocence?” 

“Oh Billiam, I’m glad you asked!” Richie exclaims, stopping and whirling around when they reach his ratty truck. “It’s rewarding as fuck! I’ve done everything under the sun and taken so many beautiful innocents and made them sexually confident! For instance, this one time—” 

“Beep beep, R-Richie,” Bill says, feeling his face heat up at the mere thought of whatever Richie has done. 

Richie frowns. “Well, Billy boy, it’s nice to get people out of their shell.” He turns and unlocks his truck, gesturing for Bill to get into the passenger seat. “I just want you all to be happy, you know?” 

“We  _ are  _ h-happy, Richie,” Bill tells him as they get into the truck. “You d-do a good job.” 

Richie doesn’t say anything for a second. Bill presses a hand against his arm, squeezing gently. Richie turns and smiles wide at him. 

“Thank you, Bill,” he says, voice soft all of a sudden. 

Bill’s heart aches. “Richie—” 

“Anyway!” Richie puts the key into the ignition, and his truck starts up with a spluttering cough. “It’s time to get you into a strip club!” 

Richie grabs the joystick to put the truck in reverse, but stops as Bill lays a hand over his. Their eyes meet, and Bill can tell Richie’s struggling not to look away. 

“Richie, we all c-care about you,” Bill tells him. “ _ All of us.  _ We all love you s-s-so much. Don’t forget that.” 

There’s a moment of what Bill feels is hesitation on Richie’s end. Then Richie reaches over the console and presses his lips against Bill’s. It’s short and sweet, and he pulling away before Bill’s eyes can even widen. 

“Wha—” Bill begins, only for Richie to clap a hand over his shoulder with a laugh. 

“A kiss between bros, Big Bill!” he exclaims, putting the truck in reverse and backing out of his parking spot. “We’ve gotta keep our bromance on the downlow though; it was getting a little too chummy just now for my tastes.” 

“Way to let a man kn-know, Rich,” Bill replies, cracking a smile with a roll of his eyes. 

Richie shrugs. “Hey, man, you know what they say! Just guys being dudes, just dudes being guys.” 

“Sure,” Bill says. 

They jerk as Richie slams on the gas, and Bill remembers with a queasy feeling that Richie’s a  _ terrible  _ driver. He should’ve told Richie  _ he  _ would drive instead. He looks back at the parking lot at old Silver and sighs in longing. 

“But you and Stan at lunch today,” Richie suddenly says with a low whistle. “You two an item now or something?” 

Bill looks over at him in confusion. “What duh-d-do you mean?” 

“Oh, come on, Billiam!” Richie exclaims as he drives them off campus. Bill jumps at the volume of his voice. “Your hand was on his thigh the entire time!” 

“No it wasn’t,” Bill quickly denies, then immediately regrets it when Richie gives him a knowing look. “Not the e-entire time, at least.” 

“Oh ho ho, but you don’t deny it was there!” Richie exclaims. 

Bill slumps against his seat, crossing his arms. “Buh-b-because you already know it w-was there.” 

“True, true,” Richie hums. “I always thought you and Stan would be cute. Or Mike and Stan before Eddie and Mike started dating. I don’t know if Stan swings that way or not.” 

“I’m surprised y-y-you don’t know, since you two are b-best friends,” Bill says. “I’m pretty sure he d-doesn’t have a label though.” 

Richie shrugs, turning on his blinker and taking a right so tight Bill can  _ feel  _ how close the wheels get to the curb. He clutches his hands over his thighs and squeezes tight. 

“Stanny boy is an enigma,” Richie explains with a high laugh, delighted as he speeds up. Bill swallows and reaches up to clench his seatbelt instead. “He’s like a textbook, full of information but hard to decipher.” 

“Textbooks are easy to duh-d-decipher,” Bill comments offhandedly. Richie shoots him a glare. “But I get wh-what you mean.” 

“Of course you do, Billiam! We’re a lot alike,” Richie beams. Bill wonders if that’s a good thing or not. “Bird boy just needs to come out of his shell.” 

“He duh-d-doesn’t if he doesn’t w-want to,” Bill sternly says. “Don’t force him to do anything h-he doesn’t want.” 

Richie whistles again, grinning in a way that reminds Bill of a wolf. “You sure are smitten, Bill!” 

Bill gives him a confused look. “What?” 

“We’ve talked about the others this way, my big boy Billiam, but you’re not as stern about them as you are with Stan,” Richie explains, leaning over and nudging him. The truck swerves a little to Bill’s right. “You’re pretty protective of him! And here I thought you’d be fawning over Eddie-bear, since he’s your best friend!” 

“I thought you’d cuh-c-care more about Stan since he’s  _ your  _ b-best friend,” Bill responds with an easygoing smile, hoping to steer the conversation away from him. 

“I do!” Richie squawks in indignation. “I care more about Stanny than you could ever imagine! I respect his comfort zone, is all.” 

“On the rare occasion, sure,” Bill agrees. 

“Always a man to wound another’s heart, my dear Billy,” Richie says, voice comically raspy and breath short. Bill laughs in response. 

The rest of the ride is, surprisingly, in complete silence. Richie taps his fingers against the steering wheel as a makeshift tune to listen to. Bill wonders when Richie will get his radio fixed, or when he’ll get a new vehicle in general. His truck is so ratty Bill can  _ feel  _ it taking its last breaths. 

Soon Richie pulls off of one of the familiar roads Bill takes to work and onto one he’s never been on before. Bill doesn’t go many places if he doesn’t have to, and this is certainly one of those places. 

Richie takes a few more turns, zigzagging through short, grimy looking streets before exiting town. Bill closes his eyes as the bright lights of the city are left behind. 

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep when he’s awoken with a hard shove and Richie whining, “Don’t fall asleep on me now, Bill! It’s only ten thirty!” 

“‘M awake,” Bill slurs, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. 

They’re definitely out of town, that’s for sure. In fact, Bill can’t even tell which town they  _ are  _ in. It’s dark and open. The only building in sight is the one they’re in the parking lot of. Bill squints to try and see further and finds lights in the distance, maybe a half a dozen miles off. 

“Where are we?” he asks. 

Richie pulls his keys out of his truck with a laugh. “A strip club, of course!” 

“Nuh-n-no.” Bill shakes his head. “Where  _ are  _ we?” 

“A little past Pittsfield,” Richie explains. “Now, come on, strip club strip club  _ strip club _ !” 

Bill laughs as he unbuckles his seatbelt, hands uncharacteristically shaky. He doesn’t realize how nervous he is until he opens the door and nearly falls out of his seat and onto the pavement. Maybe he’s just dizzy from just waking up. Yeah, he’s not nervous. Just dizzy. 

“Come  _ on,  _ Bill! There is no time to waste!” Richie exclaims, rushing over to help him stabilize himself. “The night is young and—” 

“S-so are we,” Bill finishes with a smile. “I know, Richie.” 

Richie grins back. “Exactly! Now hurry up, geez! Did taking a nap give you jetlag?” 

Bill shakes his head. No, he’s just dizzy. How long was he asleep? He looks down at his watch. It’s 10:37 PM. He doesn’t remember what the time was when he dozed off. 

He looks up to look at the crude name of the strip club Richie promised, only to stop short when there’s a different name instead. 

“‘ _ The Blue Moon _ ’?” Bill reads off the name of the building in confusion. “I thought—” 

Richie closes the door and locks the truck, patting it affectionately. He turns back to Bill with a shrug. 

“The other one was too…” He rotates his hand about his wrist, trying to find the right words. “Out there? Definitely not for beginners like you!” 

“Thank you for your h-hospitality,” Bill drily replies. 

“Don’t sweat it, Billiam!” 

Richie guides Bill towards the door, pressing his hand against his lower back. Bill only realizes he’s walking slower and slower when Richie’s hand pushes against his back, urging him forward. He tries to step more confidently but can’t seem to manage it. 

“Don’t get cold feet on me now, Bill,” Richie says, voice oddly soft and soothing. Bill feels like he’s still dreaming just a little. 

As they approach Richie perks up when we sees a man standing in front of the entrance. Bill listens half heartedly as Richie greets him, the two talking for a few minutes, exchanging banter and laughs as Bill stands off to the side. 

The man gestures at Bill, and Bill finds himself equal parts intimidated and uncaring. Richie explains who Bill is, and Bill snorts to him calling him a “newbie” before the man lets them in. 

Richie turns the door handle, tapping against Bill’s back before soothing out the jean jacket affectionately. “You ready to get more than your mind blown tonight, Big Bill?” 

Bill snorts. “Hardly.” 

Richie lets out a holler of laugher before swinging open the door. “That’s the spirit, Bill! Now go on,” he pushes Bill forward. “Go inside!” 

And Bill steps into a strip club for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the story, talk to me about it on my Tumblr ([its-noma](https://its-noma.tumblr.com/))!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill has a lot of conflicting feelings about strip clubs and Richie is nowhere to be found to help him (typical Tozier).

The first thing Bill notices is the heat. Suddenly he goes from it being cool out with a chilling breeze to being swamped with humidity. He looks over at Richie to find his glasses have fogged up from the sudden temperature change. 

Once he gets past the initial shock of the temperature, the next thing he registers is the  _ smell.  _ It somehow smells both kind of good and bad, and Bill can’t exactly pinpoint which odor is which with how much is in the building. Alcohol, perfume, sweat… 

There are people everywhere. Men and women alike are moving to and fro, many carrying drinks, some holding what look to be e-cigarettes. He covers his nose and mouth to block out the smell. 

Richie laughs beside him. His hand hasn’t left, simply resting on Bill’s back as a sort of anchor. Bill appreciates it, leaning into Richie’s side as he takes in the rest of his surroundings. 

The color scheme seems to be blue and gold. There are a few monochrome colors around, but it’s primarily blue and gold. Bill doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. He thought the place would be pink or red, like a play on raw emotion and arousal. He guesses blue and gold has something to do with the name of the strip club, but also maybe some of the strippers?

…Oh. 

Oh yeah. 

_ There are strippers here. _

Now that Bill is focusing on the strippers, there seem to be a decent amount of them. Well, there definitely aren’t as many strippers as there are people watching them, but there’s a good number of them. They’re all spaced out, so it’s easy for Bill to count five…six…seven. One of the strippers leaves and disappears backstage. 

The building didn’t look as big on the outside, but the inside is big enough for the two or three stages the strippers are performing on. Bill can’t really tell if there are two or three since they’re all so close together. He’s not sure if the ones further to the left are one or two stages. He squints and finds there’s two, like he suspected. 

“So?” Richie’s voice is louder than usual to be heard over the loud music and people talking and hollering. “What do you think?” 

Bill looks down and away from the stages to the floor. Something about staring at the strippers felt…wrong. He isn’t sure what exactly. Isn’t that the purpose of these places? To stare? 

“It’s…something,” he responds. 

Richie rubs his hand up and down Bill’s back before turning him to face him. Bill is a little startled to find Richie staring at him with a stern look, meeting his eyes with a firm and resolute gaze. Bill grasps at Richie’s arms in an automatic response to Richie squeezing his biceps. 

“We can leave at any time,” Richie tells him, voice solid and unwavering. “Just let me know and I’ll get us out of here.” 

Bill doesn’t know how to respond other than with a nod and a small, “Okay.” 

Richie nods in approval before pulling away, stepping back a little to look around. Bill wants to reach out to him, feeling out of place in somewhere so foreign, but resists the urge. He’s acting like a child. Richie isn’t his father, nor is he his mother. Bill can take care of himself here. He’s been doing that for a long time. 

“You mind if I—” Richie begins, pointing over to the bar tucked away into one of the corners of the room. 

Bill nods, saying, “You huh-h-have fun. I’ll find you if I n-need you.” 

Richie replies with a smile and a final squeeze of his arm before he turns and moves towards the bar. Not even a second later, he’s lost to the sea of people plastered to the walls nearby. 

Bill stands where he is for a while. He doesn’t exactly…know what to do. He’s never been to a strip club before; do you just sit down and watch? Do you stand? How far away from the stage should you be? 

What if he meets someone he knows?  _ Oh god, _ he thinks in horror,  _ what if someone from school sees me?  _ He never even thought about what it would be like if someone he knew actually caught him in a strip club. 

His mouth screws into a frown. God, he should never have agreed to do this. Maybe he should get Richie and leave before he can risk being seen in a place that is, admittedly, full of greasy old men violating people trying to do their job and pay their bills. How embarrassing would it be if someone saw him amongst such gross people? 

His mind set, Bill starts walking in the direction Richie took off in. 

Then he stops, suddenly hesitating, mind no longer set. 

No.  _ No _ , he can do this. It’s just for a few hours. What’re the odds someone is going to find them all the way out in Pittsfield, an hour away from Hudson? 

Torn between what he wants to do, Bill stands idly near the bar where Richie  _ should  _ be, but unsurprisingly isn’t. Typical Tozier, saying he’s going one place and then going another. 

Bill sighs, moving towards one of the stages and sitting down in a chair situated in the back. He doesn’t want to get  _ too  _ close. 

But, he supposes, he’s not going to sit around a bunch of half naked men and not watch. That sounds awful, he knows, but if this is the purpose of the business he might as well give in to Richie’s pleas and do  _ something.  _

Bill groans in exasperation, rubbing his hands into his eyes. He can’t seem to make up his mind about anything tonight. At least he’s not going to be disrespectful towards any of the strippers. He can pride himself in that. 

Suddenly the lights on the stage he’s watching dim, almost turning off completely. A part of Bill, most likely the part that wants to leave, thinks maybe there’s a power outage, and he sits up to look around. No one reacts except for a few letting out pleased hollers. The other lights remain on. 

Confused, Bill turns back to the stage. The curtains at the back are suddenly parted by two thin hands, and out walks a man with a lithe but strong looking body, muscles toned but body still looking gentle. It’s such an odd mixture of masculine and feminine that Bill can’t stop looking at him. 

Bill can’t see his face, hidden behind a baby blue veil, complementing the gold of the rest of his outfit. Or, well, what looks to be  _ part  _ of an outfit. The man isn’t wearing a shirt. 

What Bill would hesitantly call some sort of skirt is the same shade of baby blue as his veil, with gold accents around the waist and hem down at the ankles. It looks like two blue flowing veils attached to incredibly short spandex, one in the front and one in the back. It looks…surprisingly good, now that Bill is staring at the man closer. For such an oddly put together “outfit,” the man’s body type pulls it off well. 

The man moves slowly down the stage as a new song comes on, slow and sensual but with an obvious beat, moving almost  _ teasingly _ , and Bill harshly swallows to try and get rid of the sudden lump in his throat. He’s so speechless by this man’s ethereal beauty he completely forgets about the other men and women cheering and hollering in excitement. 

It’s only then, as the man approaches it, that Bill notices a pole near the end of the stage. The man’s nimble fingers wrap around it delicately, and Bill’s entranced, watching as the man takes deliberately slow steps around it. He wishes he could see the man’s expression, see what the man’s eyes are saying. 

_ Probably that he hates his job,  _ Bill muses, and snorts a little to himself.  _ There’s probably only a select few who do this kind of thing for fun.  _

The man stops beside the pole right as the music suddenly stops, and before Bill can blink the music is back on, more  _ intense  _ this time, and the man is moving. He splays his hands out across his chest, feeling along the skin before dropping down into a crouch, turning from one side to the other on his heels before nimble fingers latch onto the pole, using it to pull himself back up. Then he grabs onto the pole and hoists himself up with one leg, the other coming up, and Bill is stuck in place, watching as if the man is walking on  _ air  _ around the pole as his arms pull him up until he isn’t touching the floor. 

“ _ Wow _ ,” is all he can murmur, sitting forward on his knees to watch more intently. All his thoughts from earlier about leaving are gone. 

The man, who people are reverently calling “Blue Bird,” twists his right leg around his left before hopping off the pole and back onto the floor. It’s then that Bill fully takes in the smooth muscles of his torso, well defined, just like his arms. He’d never realized how athletic strippers had to be. 

Blue Bird drops down onto his knees, arching his back and tilting his head back just so as he draws his hands up and down his body, first brushing against his pale chest before moving down and roaming across his pelvis. Bill swallows thickly and leans forward the slightest bit more. 

Then the hands are moving upward again, away from Blue Bird’s crotch and back to the pole. Bill exhales harshly, feeling as if that breath had been held for ages before releasing. His mouth is suddenly dry, and he licks his lips. 

Blue Bird takes slow, deliberate steps around the pole, one hand never leaving it while the other runs quickly through his hair. Bill wonders if he’s surveying his large crowd as he watches his head turn. He  _ really  _ wishes he could see his expression. This would be a lot better if he could gauge how Blue Bird was feeling. 

A hand claps onto his shoulder, and Bill sits up straight, arms immediately coming down to hide the growing tent in his jeans. He looks up, expecting to see Richie, but is instead met with an older looking man. 

“You enjoying Blue Bird’s performance, ay?” the man asks. There’s what looks to be a e-cigarette in his mouth. 

Bill doesn’t know what to say, so all he does is nod. The man laughs. 

“I’m the owner of this strip club,” the man introduces himself, holding down his hand for Bill to shake. Bill’s hesitant at first but takes it anyway; can’t afford to be rude to the man who runs the place. “I’ve never seen you here before! You’re a strapping young man, I’m quite surprised.” 

“I d-don’t come to these kinds of puh-p-places often,” Bill says, hoping the loud music and loud cheering and loud  _ everything  _ will block out his voice and end this conversation. Out of all the people here, the owner had to pick out  _ him _ ? 

The owner laughs again. “I didn’t think so. You look like a more old-fashioned fellow. Well, enjoy the show! Blue Bird will come out into the crowd soon, so maybe you’ll get a taste of what he can  _ really  _ do.” 

Then the owner is walking away, and Bill is left kind of dumbstruck by the sudden interaction. He sits there in a stupor for a few minutes, trying to piece together what the man meant by  _ a taste of what he can  _ really  _ do, _ before turning his eyes back to the stage. 

By now, Blue Bird is swinging around the pole using just his arms to hold on before pulling his legs up to cross around the pole. Bill’s eyes widen when he straightens himself out on the pole, arms raising to grab higher and bare thighs holding the pole tightly between them. Bill feels hot watching, suddenly wondering just  _ what  _ exactly else the man’s legs can wrap around, and has to swallow and cough into his arm to keep those thoughts at bay. He can feel how tight he is in his jeans and sighs. This’ll be awkward to get rid of. 

Blue Bird slides down just the slightest bit, unhooking one of his legs and throwing his head to one side. Bill imagines a sultry face, eyes closed and lips slightly parted as he brings up his free leg, grinding it and subsequently his groin against the pole. Bill bites back a groan at the sight. 

Suddenly the man stops grinding, and Bill exhales heavily as he wraps his legs back around the pole and squeezes. His leg muscles tighten to hold onto the pole before his torso is bending backwards, chest pointing towards the crowd. Bill sits up again, noticing the veil beginning to fall towards the ground, and is desperate to finally catch a glimpse of the man’s face. 

He has to stand up to see, other people crowding around him to get a good view. He bemoans the fact that he decided to sit in the  _ back,  _ the farthest away from the stage. 

Boner forgotten for the time being, Bill moves closer to the stage and snags a seat against the wall only a few meters away. There he can see Blue Bird move from the side, body contorting so his hands are wrapped around the pole near the stage floor, body forming a backward c, and Bill can’t even  _ imagine  _ how flexible Blue Bird is. Well, he  _ could,  _ but he’d rather save that for later when he isn’t trying to focus on something else. 

And it’s then that Bill sees Blue Bird’s face. 

He stops moving, breath catching in his throat as his blood suddenly goes cold, broken from his trance at the face he’s staring at. The  _ familiar  _ face he’s staring at.  

… _ Stan?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the story, talk to me about it on my Tumblr ([its-noma](https://its-noma.tumblr.com/))!  
> Also, just a PSA: I update every Saturday! Stay tuned for next week, where it gets really spicy. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hot until it's not, and even then Bill still thinks it's hot. How wrong could this situation be?

Bill can’t believe his eyes. That man…that  _ stripper _ …is  _ Stan.  _ Snarky, somewhat uptight Stan, who watches birds and wears sweater vests and corduroy pants unironically…Stan, who yells at Richie and sometimes even Bev to cover up because they’re dressing indecently… _ that same Stan,  _ up on stage, not even wearing a shirt or real  _ pants,  _ working the pole like he has been his entire life. 

Now it all makes sense why Stan knew there wasn’t a strip club in town. He knew there weren’t because if there were, he’d probably be  _ working  _ there. Well, maybe not because of the fear of being caught, but  _ still.  _ He knew because he works at one! 

Suddenly he’s hyper aware of his dick, still hard in his pants.  _ Oh god _ ,  _ he was getting hard watching his  _ friend  _ dance on stage!  _

Bill buries his face in his hands, hunching up his legs to try and hide the tent in his jeans. To anyone around him, he must look like a crazy person, but he doesn’t care because that’s  _ Stan  _ on stage and—

Bill lowers his hands. Stan has flipped off of the pole with the momentum of his legs, landing with his ass facing the crowd. He can’t seem to take his eyes off of him when Stan begins to grind down against the floor, slowly and in time with the song still playing. Bill never noticed how nice of an ass Stan has. 

He shakes his head, trying to look away because that’s one of his  _ best friends  _ and he should  _ not  _ be ogling him like this! But each time he rips his eyes away, he finds them drifting back to stare as Stan keeps moving, crawling across the floor. Bill pulls his hood up and shields his face when he sees Stan crawling towards the part of the stage he’s closest to before Stan is rolling over and pulling himself up into a sitting position using nothing but his torso, fingers running through his hair. 

Bill exhales in relief when Stan is no longer facing in his direction. Another stripper makes his way down to meet Stan, pulling him up and brushing up against him almost fondly. Bill can’t even imagine how Stan could allow that; he barely ever allows the losers to touch him unless he’s in a particularly good mood. The only exceptions are Mike and Richie, really. Sometimes Bill too. It’s a lot more frequent with him now. 

It occurs to him that the two are exchanging words, the other stripper’s mouth moving quickly and so discreetly Bill has to squint to see his mouth so much as twitch. It must be a ritual to exchange words before switching places. 

Then Stan turns and moves towards the curtains he came from, and Bill thinks with an odd mixture of both sadness and relief,  _ Oh thank god, it’s over.  _

Except it isn’t. Stan doesn’t walk back from where he came, but instead walks down a small set of stairs at the end Bill hadn’t even registered before. A cold shock runs down his spine when Bill realizes it’s on  _ his  _ side of the stage. 

_ I need to get out of here,  _ he thinks frantically, looking around for a quick exit. There aren’t any doors nearby, and the closer Stan moves towards the crowd, the more people begin clogging up any possible beeline towards the doors him and Richie entered. 

Bill slumps further back against the chair, wondering if he should text Richie and have him help him leave. His hands twitch in the desperate need to grab his phone, but then he stops and actually  _ thinks.  _

Stan works in a strip club. 

Stan works in a strip club  _ an hour away from campus  _ and so far out even Bill didn’t recognize where they were. There had to be a reason for it, right? Stan doesn’t want to get caught in a strip club just as much as  _ Bill  _ doesn’t. The only difference would be that Bill would be caught staring at strippers and Stan would be caught  _ being  _ a stripper. There was a huge difference there. 

Bill hums, weighing his options. Well, he should  _ definitely  _ leave. He should contact Richie once he’s outside and tell him he needs to leave and convince him never to come near this strip club again. He should—

Suddenly there’s a weight against his lap, featherlight in almost a  _ question  _ before more pressure is applied when Bill doesn’t move. Bill snaps his eyes away from the exit door and finds Stan’s back right in front of him, the rest of his body fitting into his lap easily, as if he were meant to be there. Bill’s eyes bug out as Stan begins to grind against him, hips rotating and shifting back until his ass is pressed right up against Bill’s dick. 

He stifles a groan, closing his eyes as Stan grabs onto the arm rests and slides his body off of Bill before dipping down to the floor in a crouch. Stan’s hands plant themselves against the floor, and Bill opens his eyes right as Stan slowly lifts his ass up into the air, wiggling it as he brings his hands up along the length of his legs. He straightens himself out as his hands keep moving, roaming across his chest before brushing into his curls. 

Bill can’t deny he’s awestruck. He’s a little taken aback by the little laugh he hears in front of him. When Stan tilts his head slightly to show himself brushing his hand down his jaw Bill catches a glimpse of a small smile. 

Does Stan enjoy doing this? Bill hadn’t thought so, but before he knew it was Stan and instead as Blue Bird he looked enthusiastic, like he was actually  _ excited  _ to be dancing in front of a sea of people. Yeah, that was probably just a façade for work, but  _ still.  _ Does Stan secretly enjoy working as a stripper? 

His thoughts are cut off when Stan presses his hands against Bill’s thighs, rolling his hips back before slotting himself back against Bill’s lap. Bill’s seen enough porn to know that this isn’t an average lap dance, because it feels like Stan doesn’t know what he’s doing, but also that he knows  _ exactly _ what he’s doing. The fact that Bill can’t tell which is kind of exhilarating. 

When Stan grinds down a little more harshly, Bill bites his tongue so hard he can almost instantly taste blood. He exhales hotly against the nape of Stan’s neck, not wanting to touch him but also  _ desperately  _ wanting to touch him. His dick is so hard it’s beginning to hurt. 

He rolls his hips up experimentally. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to do that, and he definitely knows he  _ shouldn’t  _ be doing that to one of his  _ friends,  _ but the rational part of his brain is close to gone at this point. 

Stan lets out a little noise. Bill’s never heard it before, somewhere between a moan and a gasp of what sounds like  _ interest.  _ Bill swallows nervously and rolls his hips up again, and Stan is hooking his legs around on either side of Bill’s in whatever space is left in the chair to continue grinding down against his dick. It’s a lot more intense this time, and Bill can’t help the groan that escapes him, feeling relief fill him to the friction against his aching cock. 

Then Stan is tilting his head. Bill doesn’t know how far he’s going to turn it until he catches a glimpse of Stan’s eyes blowing wide right before his movements halt.  _ Oh no. _

Sheer panic floods Bill’s veins, making him feel way too cold in such a hot and scalding place as this strip club. He feels as if Stan is staring into his very soul, and he’s at the perfect angle where Bill can actually  _ see  _ his face from behind the veil. Stan looks horrified, frozen in shock and unable to move, mouth dropped open in surprise. 

“Yuh-y-y-you sh-sh-should get off m-me,” Bill manages to get out, swallowing and trying to breathe normally to soothe his stutter, but he can’t seem to settle down. His heart is beating way too fast. 

The sound of Bill’s voice must break him out of some sort of stupor, because Stan blinks and nods dumbly, moving off of Bill and back onto the floor. He turns back to stare at Bill, face once again obscured by the veil, and Bill wishes he could see Stan’s face, see what’s going through Stan’s head. He must be horrified and disgusted, knowing he was giving a lap dance to one of his best friends. 

“I—” Stan pauses, unsure of what to say. “You—” 

It’s at that moment that the owner Bill was talking to walks over with a sour expression on his face. Bill’s taken aback, hoping he’s not coming after them _.  _ He swallows and watches the man approach, and yep, he’s coming towards them.  _ Great _ . 

“Blue Bird, what’s the problem here?” the owner exclaims, loud but not loud enough to draw attention to them. Most of the crowd is focusing on the other stripper by now. “Did you upset this young man?” 

Stan’s reply is quick, “No! No, sir, we just—” He tilts his head down towards the floor, folding his arms over himself, as if to cover himself in embarrassment. “I need a break. Can I take a break?” 

The owner looks ready to say no, scowl pulling at his lips. Bill looks between them, unsure of what to say or how to act. Then he takes in the way Stan’s shoulders are rising and falling faster and knows he needs to help Stan out (like hell he’d just sit and watch Stan get yelled at!). 

“Huh-h-he needs a b-break,” Bill tells the owner. “He was b-beginning to wobble wuh-wh-when he was—when he was g-g-giving me a lap dance. I th-think it’s the heat. Duh-d-do you mind?” 

The owner turns his gaze down to Bill. He scrutinizes him for a moment, and Bill smiles hesitantly, trying to work his charm to persuade the man to let Stan out. He can see Stan visibly shaking. 

“Alright,” the owner relents before turning back to Stan. “Fifteen minutes. I expect you back in here for the rest of the night unless you pass out.” 

Stan nods, and Bill stands up and follows him as he moves towards a different exit Bill hadn’t noticed before. He pushes the door open for Stan, and Stan murmurs something unintelligible as he walks out, Bill following. 

They’re behind the building. Nobody else is back here. 

Once the door is shut with a soft click, Stan whirls around on him, whipping off his veil and nearly shouting, “What are you  _ doing  _ here!” 

Bill grimaces, leaning against the building and immediately regretting it. 

“R-Richie said the other s-s-strip club was too experienced f-for me,” Bill explains, as if that explained the fact that Bill was watching Stan as if he were a moth drawn to a flame, practically  _ lusting  _ after him and even continuing to ogle him after he realized it was  _ Stan  _ he was watching. 

Stan huffs angrily, pulling at his curls, and Bill steps towards him when hot tears track down Stan’s face. Pulling at his hair only made him more upset. Stan glares at him, stepping back and out of Bill’s reach. 

“How long were you watching me?” he asks, voice high and shrill and  _ man,  _ Bill feels horrible—Stan only gets high and shrill when he’s  _ really  _ upset. “How. Long. Were. You. Watching. Me?” 

Bill wants to lie. He wants to pretend like this never happened, if he’s being honest, but it  _ did  _ happen and there’s somewhere in Bill that doesn’t quite regret it. 

“The wh-whole time,” he answers honestly. 

He looks away, rubbing at the arm he’s holding over his awkward boner, the boner he got from  _ Stan.  _ He could not be any more embarrassed and humiliated right now. 

“The  _ whole _ —” Stan begins, then pauses when a shuddering sob wracks through his body. “I was on stage for a  _ while _ ! And you were watching the  _ whole time _ ?” 

“I duh-d-didn’t know it was y-you!” Bill exclaims, holding up his hands in defense. “I o-only knew when you d-did th-that trick where you—wuh-w-where you—” He tries to make hand gestures to explain what he means, then exhales in frustration when he sees that Stan isn’t getting it. “When you m-moved backwards buh-b-before falling back onto the floor! Your b-body contorted and the veil f-f-fell, and—” 

Stan almost screeched, face contorting in anguish before hiding his face in his hands and turning away. Bill jumps in surprise, asking what was wrong. He’s only ever seen Stan this upset  _ one  _ other time, and that involved Richie, and—

“What’s wrong? What’s  _ wrong _ ?” Stan whips back around, hands over his torso to cover himself, as if Bill hadn’t seen everything and more during his performance. “You—you knew it was me and  _ let me give you a lap dance! That’s  _ what’s wrong!” 

Bill opens his mouth to respond, but finds no words come out. He has no idea what to say, because he  _ did  _ let Stan give him a lap dance, and even grinded back against him. Really, there was a lot of stuff wrong with that situation. 

He frowns as a cold shiver jolts through Stan’s body, who hides his face in his hands and quietly cries. From either humiliation or being horrified, Bill doesn’t know. He shrugs off his jean jacket and steps forward, and Stan moves back the slightest bit before realizing what he’s trying to do and letting him wrap the jacket around him. He clutches the fabric over his bare skin and barely manages to mumble a small thank you. 

“I d-didn’t know what t-t-to say,” Bill says, rubbing Stan’s arms through the jacket to try and warm him up. “You were j-just kinda there, I wuh-w-wasn’t sure how to s-stop you.” 

It takes a few minutes before Stan looks away, wiping his eyes and sucking in air uselessly through his clogged nose. His shaking is less than it was before, his eyes steadily leaking less and less tears. Bill can tell he’s a decent amount calmer now, and sighs in relief. He doesn’t know how what he said or did could’ve mellowed Stan out a bit, but he’s glad that whatever he did worked. 

Maybe it was just Stan assessing the situation and going internal. That was even worse. Bill hated when Stan went internal; it made him harder to talk to and help. 

“Richie’s here too,” Stan says, less like a question and more like a statement. Bill nods. “Did he see me too?” Bill shakes his head. “Thank goodness…please never bring this up to anyone.” 

“Of course,” Bill agrees. 

He wonders how he ever  _ could.  _ A part of him knows that if he did he’d have to explain the whole fiasco from  _ his  _ perspective and how he was lusting after Stan’s fine ass even after finding out it was  _ Stan’s  _ fine ass he was lusting after. Another part of him feels greedy; wants to keep it a secret, something he can keep to himself. 

Then Stan says, “You still have a boner.” 

Bill jumps back, quickly covering his crotch with his hands. Stan laughs a little, and it’s a watery sound, but it’s still a laugh. Bill laughs weakly in response. This is still  _ really  _ awkward. 

Stan looks down towards the ground. “Please forget this ever happened. I won’t—I won’t hold it against you, you didn’t know it was me…and I didn’t know it was you until I looked. We can just forget this happened and go back to how we were before. I’ll even pretend you don’t have a major hard-on right now.” 

“That s-sounds like a p-perfect plan to me,” Bill replies, even though his head is filled with  _ how can I forget, you were pressed up against my dick, your ass is so nice, your dancing was beautiful, I had no idea your body was so well defined, how could I forget?  _ “I’ll find Richie and g-get him out of here. I’ll muh-make sure we n-n-never come b-back here.” 

“Thank you,” Stan says, and his voice is filled with so much raw relief that Bill feels both good and bad for him. Good because Stan feels better but bad because Stan just had one of the worst freak outs Bill has ever seen. Bill can guarantee Stan is still having a freak out in his head. 

“When do you g-g-get off of w-work?” Bill asks. 

Stan sighs shakily. “One thirty.” 

He asks, “Duh-d-do you need to b-be picked up later?” 

“I’ll be fine getting home myself,” Stan replies. “Thank you, Bill.” He pauses, then says, “You’re a really great friend, you know that? Any of the others would’ve freaked out.” 

_ It’s not like I’m  _ not  _ freaking out right now _ , Bill thinks almost hysterically.  _ You’re just more important than that right now.  _

“Ben and Mike w-would’ve both duh-d-done the same,” Bill says. 

Stan rolls his eyes with a chuckle. “Yeah, except for the fact that Ben would never step foot in a strip club and Mike is dating Eddie.” 

“You got me there,” Bill agrees. 

Stan hums. He steps around Bill and opens the door, peaking in for a few moments before closing the door again. 

“I’ve got a couple more minutes until I need to be back in there,” Stan tells him. “You go get Richie and get out of here before I come back in.” 

“R-roger that,” Bill says. He turns and pushes open the door, then pauses. “If you n-need help guh-g-getting home, just call m-me, okay?” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stan says. 

Bill nods, turning and walking through the door. He glances back at Stan, who’s adjusting the veil back over his face, one more time right before the door shuts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the story, talk to me about it on my Tumblr ([its-noma](https://its-noma.tumblr.com/))!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Bill leave the strip club. Bill is tired and wants to not talk about what happened, but Richie seems to have an endless supply of energy. Like seriously, how is this guy so energetic all the time?

_ Stan must be a fan favorite, _ Bill ponders to himself as he makes his way through the dissipating sea of people.  _ There aren’t as many people over here as there were for his performance.  _

He wonders how Stan could put up with such an…unfitting job. Stan hates things being unorganized and messy; it messes with his head and makes him anxious. This place is all  _ about  _ unorganized and messy. How can he stand it? 

_ It must pay well,  _ Bill muses as he approaches the bar.  _ That’s the only reason why he would put up with something like this.  _

He finds Richie just from the loud sound of his voice and rolls his eyes as he sees him trying to smooth talk the bartender. As he gets closer he finds it’s to get a free drink and laughs a little. Of course Richie would be trying to get a free drink. 

He steps up beside him and tugs on his sleeve. Richie doesn’t feel it at first, only turning his head when Bill tugs a little harder, pulling his arm closer to get his attention. His face lights up upon seeing it’s Bill. 

Richie beams, starting, “Bill! How—”

“Can we luh-l-leave?” Bill cuts in, looking towards the door and back at Richie. 

Almost immediately Richie’s smile drops, face turning into one of resolute seriousness, and he nods and turns away from the bar. Bill’s seen Richie this serious a number of times throughout their lives, but just like this time, it always leaves Bill with a weird feeling in his gut, unsettled from how few and far in between it happens. 

“Yeah, of course,” Richie says. “Let’s get outta here.” 

He pulls Bill in closer to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pushing past people to get to the door. Bill closes his eyes and exhales, thankful as Richie navigates them through the crowds of people and closer and closer to the door. He turns his head to peek at the door him and Stan had left in and finds Stan pushing open the door, looking around. 

Their eyes meet, and Bill gives a short nod and a smile. He doesn’t know if Stan can still see him as Richie pushes them past more and more people. Bill just hopes Stan can rest easy once him and Richie are gone. 

Richie shoves open the door and Bill inhales sharply to the cool night air hitting him in the face. When Stan and him were outside, it was cold but the breeze wasn’t against them. On the other side of the building, the wind is harsh and unforgiving in the late night. 

The man Richie was talking to outside gives a short goodbye as they walk past. Richie stops and says to have a good night, and the two fist bump before Richie steers Bill towards his truck. At the sight of Richie’s ratty truck, Bill is overwhelmed by the feeling of how _ ready  _ he is for this night to be over. It’s been a little too much for him. He still needs to have his own freak out. He can feel it in the back of his head and knows it won’t be long until he’s actually processing everything that’s happened tonight. 

Bill pulls away from Richie and walks over to the passenger side. He opens the door as soon as Richie unlocks it, climbing inside as Richie gets in the driver’s seat. For once Richie doesn’t say anything as the two get situated. 

Richie turns on the engine and pulls out of the parking spot. Bill closes his eyes and leans his head against the window as Richie begins driving them back to campus. 

The silence is broken as Richie asks, “So why did you wanna leave? I’m actually surprised, Billiam! You lasted a whole hour.” 

“It was…t-t-too hot in there,” Bill answers, a little too quick, and winces because he  _ knows  _ he’s a bad liar and that was a pretty horrible lie. “P-plus, the owner wuh-w-was really awful.” Okay, that one was sort of a truth, sort of a lie. The man was nice to him but rude to Stan, so he wasn’t completely lying there. 

“Oh yeah? It was too hot in there for you, huh?” Richie gives him a sly look. “Is that why your jacket is missing?” 

Bill feels his stomach drop, breath halting in his throat as he grabs at his chest, anxiety taking hold of him. All he feels is the fabric of his hoodie, pulse picking up in panic as he feels that his jacket isn’t on him. 

_ Shit,  _ he left his jacket with Stan before he left! 

“So who’s the lucky person sporting your jacket, Billy boy?” Richie asks, leaning over to nudge him. 

The car swerves, leaning closer to the side of the road. Bill pushes him back where he belongs, not looking to get in an accident tonight. He has too much on his plate as it is. 

“No one,” he tries to lie, but Richie  _ knows  _ his jacket is on someone else and he isn’t going to drop it. “Alright, f-fine. A s-s-stripper has it.” 

“A  _ stripper _ ?” Richie is actually appalled, and Bill wishes he’d just said he let someone in the audience borrow it instead. Then Richie gasps, exclaiming, “ _ Oh my god _ , I actually caught a glimpse of you leaving with someone! I wasn’t paying attention to when you two came back in, but you get what I mean!  _ That  _ was a stripper?” 

_ That  _ stripper was Stan, and Bill thinks back to the beginning of his performance all the way through the night to when they were talking outside. He groans as he feels a pounding headache coming on, rubbing his temples and pulling himself away from the window when his head smacks against it from hitting a pothole dead-on. Richie  _ really  _ needs to get a new glasses prescription. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Amazing!” Richie wolf whistles, howling as he rolls down the window. “First time at a strip club and you’re already wooing the strippers. I gotta call Bev!” 

“Richie, no!” Bill reaches for Richie’s phone as he digs it out, but Richie holds it out of his reach and out the window as he punches in Beverly’s number. Bill has to grab the wheel when Richie outright  _ lets go  _ of it. “ _ Richie _ !” 

Richie puts his phone on speaker and takes the wheel back from him as it rings. Bill exhales in frantic relief, hands settling on his lap, ready to take the wheel for whenever Richie decides to be a dumbass again. Knowing Richie, it won’t be too long. 

It doesn’t take long for Beverly to answer. 

“What do you want, Trashmouth?” Her voice isn’t groggy, and in the background Bill can hear the other losers talking. Everyone except them and  _ Stan.  _

“We’re on our way back from the strip club!” Richie cheers as Bill rubs at his eyes, trying to will away every thought that had ran through his head about Stan throughout the hour he and Richie were there. “And guess what? Bill left his jacket with one of the strippers after leaving the building with them for, like, ten minutes!” 

_ Fifteen,  _ Bill corrects,  _ but who’s counting?  _

Beverly wolf whistles in response, and Bill wonders who got it from who. At this point Bill is too afraid to ask. 

“Really? Bill,” she exclaims, “you  _ have  _ to spill the details! Who was it? What do they look like? Did you get their name? Oooh, what was their  _ stripper  _ name?” 

“Slow down, tiger,” Ben says, voice muffled from the distance but becoming more clear. “How was it, Bill?” 

“It wuh-w-was fine,” Bill responds, thankful that people like Ben exist in this world. “I’m too tired to t-talk about this right n-now. Can I explain in the muh-morning?” 

“Of course,” Ben says right as Beverly whines, “Noooo, you have to explain now!” 

“C’mon, Billiam, at least give us the stripper’s stripper name!” Richie begs, trying to plead with his best puppy dog eyes, but Bill is too tired to be affected by them. 

Bill groans and leans over, plucking the phone from Richie’s hand and saying a quiet “Good night, guys” right before he ends the call. Richie squawks and reaches his arm over to grab his phone back, whining that Bill is being a party pooper. Bill simply stashes Richie’s phone in his pocket, refusing to give it back. 

“For our  _ safety, _ R-R-Richie,” he tells him. 

Richie takes his arm back when I realizes Bill isn’t going to give him back his phone any time soon. He pouts. 

“I can’t believe virgin boy Billy got more action than me tonight,” he huffs out, and Bill can’t help but laugh at how upset he is. Then he perks up and asks, “Say, did you two bone?” 

Bill scoffs, feeling heat rise on his cheeks. “Who d-do you  _ t-take _ me for?” 

“Well, you’re a  _ virgin  _ and you were out there for ten minutes!” Richie justifies. “If you two did I’m actually proud you lasted that long! Say, were you giving or receiving—” 

“Richie!” Bill exclaims, heat rising and making his skin burn. The fact that Richie is unknowingly talking about him and  _ Stan  _ makes this conversation  _ much  _ more embarrassing than Bill could’ve ever imagined. “Nothing huh-h-happened!” 

Richie laughs. “Sure, sport. Then what were you two doing out there?” 

“Th-the heat w-was getting to him,” Bill chooses to explain, because hell, if he used that excuse on the owner he might as well keep it up. “I talked to the o-o-owner of the place and convinced huh-him to let him out f-for a bit.” 

“Hmm, your story kinda makes sense, it  _ was  _ hot in there,” Richie says with a frown, worrying his bottom lip. Bill hopes he can convince Richie and steer him away from talking about tonight. “But why didn’t he just go out by himself? Why were you in the situation?” 

God, sometimes Bill  _ hates  _ when Richie gets nosy. Most of the time it’s over harmless stuff, mostly just to poke fun, but right now Bill doesn’t want to think about how undeniably  _ unforgettable  _ everything involving Stan was tonight. 

“He was guh-giving me a l-l-lap dance,” Bill murmurs.

He turns away from Richie and towards the door, tucking his legs up against his chest. His legs are a little too long to allow him to sit like this comfortably, but he makes it work by compressing himself just a tiny bit more. He’d rather do this than see Richie’s smug face that  _ should  _ be on the road. 

Richie outright hollers in delight, and Bill jumps when a hand is roughly shaking him. He shoves Richie’s hand off him with a huff. 

“Bill, you sly dog!” Richie shouts, and Bill’s headache echoes in his head painfully. He groans as Richie continues, “Damn, Bill, I didn’t know you had it in you! How was it?” 

“Richie,” Bill quietly says, exhaling softly. “I’ll explain everything wuh-when we get back on campus, o-okay? My head huh-hurts.” 

There’s a brief pause that’s filled with nothing but the wind ripping through the open window. Richie doesn’t respond, and Bill glances over at him to see he’s staring at him. It’s only for a moment before his eyes are trained back on the road again. 

“Of course, Bill,” he murmurs. 

Bill closes his eyes. He can’t really describe the knot in his stomach, and where it originates from. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would've been up earlier today if my Wi-Fi hadn't taken a huge shit beforehand. :/  
> Anyway, if you like the story, talk to me about it on my Tumblr ([its-noma](https://its-noma.tumblr.com/))!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan has an existential crisis.

Stan can’t focus for the rest of the night. He really tries, but it’s difficult when he can’t stop thinking about Bill and everything he _did_ to Bill and everything Bill _saw_ and _let_ him do. The next performance he gives on stage he can’t even focus on, too deep in his head because now Bill knows just about _everything_ , and—

He’s glad the song he’s dancing to is nearly over and relatively simple, because suddenly it fully clicks in his head that Stan gave Bill a _lap dance. Bill._ And Bill _knew_ it was him the entire time! Bill had said it himself, he didn’t know it was Stan until near the end of his first performance! So why did he let Stan dance on him? Why did Bill let him _grind_ on his _dick_ ? Why did Bill _grind back_? He feels his face heat up and blames it on the exertion of pole dancing.

Lap dances were usually the same: Stan doing his usual routine, getting some decent money rewards from it, and going to the bathroom to scrub at his hands and wherever else he was touched before finishing with another performance or two and repeating the cleaning process before going back to his dorm.

And the second person’s lap he decided to fall into was Bill’s.

Now that Stan is thinking about it, the lap dance was…good. Different. There was something about it that made Stan sort of giddy, and usually he’s not like that because touching gross men is absolutely revolting, but there was something about it. He can’t exactly put a finger on it.

_Probably because he had a big dick,_ a voice in Stan’s head says, and Stan gasps and nearly falls on the pole. He has to grab it like he had in his first performance and flip around to make it look planned, rolling onto his back and continuing with the rest of his routine.

Oh _god_ , Stan can’t believe himself. That’s _Bill_ he just thought about! _Bill!_ Stan shouldn’t be thinking about one of his best friend’s _dicks_. He shouldn’t be thinking about what happened at all! He should be focusing on this last dance before he can go back to his dorm and sleep, and ignore this until the day he dies. That’s one of the things he’s good at: ignoring stuff. So why is this so hard to shake off?

Stan deep down knows why, but he doesn’t want to face it. Well, technically he _is_ facing it, because he can’t stop _thinking_ about it. He finds himself torn between two parts of him: one thinking about how big Bill’s dick is and the other chastising himself because he should _not_ be thinking about one of his friends like that.

The music slows down, growing quieter as it begins crawling towards the end. Stan crawls with it, slowly moving around the pole before latching onto it, pulling himself into a sitting position. His body is on autopilot, his brain working a million miles a minute as he can’t stop thinking about what happened with Bill.

Stan feels himself burning up from both embarrassment and unwanted arousal. He doesn’t even know if it’s _unwanted_ or not! That’s how bad this situation is!

His dance finally ends, and Stan could _not_ be any more thankful. He’s always been more than happy to get off work, but today has _definitely_ been something else.

He glances over at the clock on the nearest wall and sees it’s 1:22 AM, a whole eight minutes earlier than usual. Good. Less time working and remembering in vivid detail.

He leaves the stage after collecting his money and pulls open the back curtains he came out of earlier. He passes by one of his coworkers right as they’re about to leave. He nods at them in goodbye, and they wave before making their way onto the stage.

Once past the curtains, there is a dimly lit room bathed in a navy blue hue containing different lounge chairs and couches with a refrigerator for them all to share. That’s the communal room, where Stan’s coworkers converse or grab water or food in between the performances. Stan doesn’t loiter around in there too much, and would much rather spend his time in between performances in his designated room.

There are two hallways that branch away from the communal room. There’s one on the far right for the strippers who perform closer to the entrance doors where the stage over there. The other hallway is the one Stan goes down, the one closest to his stage. His coworkers that perform on the middle stage are split between the two hallways.

Stan doesn’t say anything to any of the others, only two or three chatting on some of the furniture. He doesn’t think he could handle interacting with anyone else for the rest of the night.

He moves down the hallway and opens the door to his room. Some of the others have doors decorated with stuff related to their stripper names, but Stan only has in his manager’s blocky handwriting spelling out “Blue Bird” on a piece of torn printer paper. One of the others had drawn a strangely on point bluebird, colored and everything, in the white space underneath his name. That’s all for the “decorations” he has on his door.

Stan turns the light on and shuts the door. He turns the lock back and forth three times before exhaling and moving towards his bag, which sits on the cleared off vanity. He takes one look in the mirror and bites his tongue before looking away.

He pulls out his clothes and begins changing, first by slipping the veil out from his spandex and folding it before placing it in his bag. He hates wearing the veil because he has to arrange it in his spandex over his underwear so it’ll stay, but it covers him up more than other outfits, so he doesn’t have any complaints outside of that.

He tries to ignore the very obvious hard-on he has, and oh _wow_ , that’s _actually_ humiliating. Stan kind of wants to die. He doesn’t know if he should rub one out or just get back to his dorm as soon as possible and ignore it. On one hand it’d be deeply degrading to get off at his workplace (a _strip club_ ), but on the other he hates how it feels to walk with a boner, and he doesn’t know how soon it’ll go down. That old bus driver would surely have a cow if he saw Stan with a boner at this time of night.

So, with a huge load of embarrassment, he sneaks his hand down the spandex of his outfit. He hesitates, looking around even though he _knows_ he’s alone, before grasping his cock.

He jolts a little at how relieving it feels, like a built up wave crashing down on a shore. He’s ashamed and upset with himself as he begins stroking his cock, his other hand shaking as he pulls down the spandex and his underwear to let his dick out further.

It feels good but Stan isn’t focused on that. He’s too focused on how mortified he is, because he’s doing this thinking about _Bill_ and how _big_ Bill’s dick is. How hard it was underneath him as he was grinding against it, how Bill had pushed his hips up, grinding _back_ . But his hands weren’t on him— _respectful_ —even though he knew it was Stan and _oh god_ , Bill knew it was Stan and was _still_ hard and grinding back, and his dick felt so big, _so_ big. What the fuck, what the _fuck,_ Stan knows it wasn’t the national average and god _damn_ , it felt so nice against his ass and he remembers feeling desperate, _excited_ , and he could feel Bill’s shuddering breath on his back, could hear the groans being bitten off before they could fully escape, could _hear_ and _feel_ —

A few minutes pass of rampaging fantasies and remembering and feeling the ghost touches all over him, and suddenly Stan is coming, hand moving over his cock in desperation. Through the high he only has half a mind to grab some tissues out of the tissue box by his bag to catch and clean himself up as to not spill semen anywhere.

As he’s throwing away the used tissues, the rest of his mind catches back up to him, rationality returning to the forefront of his mind. Immediately he’s filled with disgust and self-loathing, because not only is that gross but also a complete invasion of privacy on Bill’s end, he can’t even _begin_ to imagine what Bill would think if he knew Stan just did that.

A part of him knows that Bill wouldn’t be disgusted—wouldn’t care—because he was also hard earlier and wasn’t disgusted with Stan at all. Only caring and concerned when Stan was freaking out over him finding out about his job.

But the other part of him is a lot stronger, telling him that Bill _would_ be disgusted. He can imagine Bill’s face, contorted in repugnance and being unable to speak beyond how bad his stutter would get simply because he couldn’t get out how truly _revolting_ what Stan did is. Because although he was barely okay with Stan’s job, knowing Stan _jerked off thinking about him_ would probably bring Bill to disown him as his friend forever.

Stan feels his throat close up and can’t help his face reddening in mortification at his own actions. He rubs at his already tender eyes as he feels tears pricking at the corners, bottom lip quivering.

He really fucking feels like dying now. He doesn’t know what came over him, but he can’t even begin to calculate how disappointed in himself he is.

He finishes getting dressed, on autopilot yet again, the throbbing in his chest and ache in the tips of his fingers in the back of his mind. He’s so braindead from everything he’s felt tonight as he leaves, exiting through the back and walking through the cold to the usual bus stop. He doesn’t think of anything aside from how deeply he hates himself, how badly he can’t believe himself, how _terrible_ of a friend he is, as he goes through the motions on his way back to his dorm.

He can’t believe himself.

He really, _really_ can’t believe himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the story, talk to me about it on my Tumblr ([its-noma](https://its-noma.tumblr.com/))!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan spends the day with Mike. There are some questions Stan feels shouldn't be asked, but his mouth thinks differently.

Stan’s alarm wakes him up promptly at eight, early even though it’s a Saturday. Stan has never been a huge fan of sleeping in, because if you mess up your sleep schedule over the weekend, the entire week is thrown off. He hates being thrown off.

He shifts around to grab his phone from under his bed, turning it off and unplugging it. He lays it underneath his pillow. Then he spends the next five minutes, as he usually does, waking himself up mentally.

He’s blissfully blank throughout those five minutes, simply allowing his brain to wake up so he doesn’t move around while groggy. Then yesterday’s events catch up to him, almost lightning fast, and Stan feels like he’s being punched in the face with the memories of his shame. He honestly wants to go back to sleep and maybe die (just a little bit).

Regardless, he gets up. Stan isn’t going to let yesterday’s regrets get in the way of a new day. He hasn’t let that happen for years now, no matter how bad his previous day was, and he isn’t going to fall back on bad habits. He may hate himself for what he did, but he might as well move forward and at least _pretend_ he’s okay.

As he’s brushing his teeth, half an hour later after showering and going through the rest of his morning routine, he hears his phone buzz from under his pillow. He glances at the closed bathroom door through the mirror’s reflection but finishes his routine as he usually does. He only ever checks his phone when he’s ready for the day so he doesn’t distract himself.

Stan hopes and prays that, if it’s a text, it’s not Bill texting him. He doesn’t know if he could face Bill just yet with what he did.

As his hands wrap around his phone, he feels a sudden jolt of guilt for hoping it’s not Bill. He frowns at his reflection on his turned off screen. It’s not like Bill _knows_ what he did. He doesn’t deserve the cold shoulder from Stan if he isn’t even the one in the wrong.

(Luckily for him,) it isn’t Bill.

It’s Mike. Stan unlocks his phone and opens it to read the message.

**Mike:**

_Hey man, you wanna review for psych?_

Stan didn’t have anything in particular planned aside from maybe bird-watching and reviewing anyway. He sends an affirmative and asks when and where they should review.

**Mike:**

_My dorm is free; Ben left to have breakfast with Bev and Rich. Either that or your dorm_

**Stan:**

_My roommate isn’t here like usual, so it doesn’t matter to me._

**Mike:**

_Okay well you can come over to mine, if you don’t mind?_

**Stan:**

_Sure. I haven’t eaten breakfast though, have you?_

**Mike:**

_No. You wanna go somewhere and start reviewing there?_

**Stan:**

_Yeah, sure. We can decide on where to go when we meet up. Is now a good time?_

**Mike:**

_Yeah, better now than ever. I’ll leave the door unlocked_

**Stan:**

_Thanks._

Stan puts his phone in his pocket. He walks over to his desk, finding his work bag in his chair where his school bag should be. He must’ve been too tired and drained last night to even properly switch out his bags.

Making quick work of switching them out, Stan sets his work bag where it belongs in the bottom drawer of the dresser in his closet. It just barely fits in there, but it keeps it hidden. The other outfits are in the drawer above it.

Stan almost had his secret found out by his old roommate back during his freshman year, only five months into the job. The guy was a major snoop and constantly liked the peek around through Stan’s stuff when he wasn’t there. Luckily it wasn’t because he was trying to steal stuff. He was just hoping to find some sort of drug, which sounds like a joke (because Stan with drugs? Really?), but Stan is serious here. The real question is why Stan keeps getting druggies as roommates.

He makes a reminder on the to-do list sitting in the corner of his desk to do a load of laundry when he gets back. Then he double checks he has his psychology material and a few other classes’ work. He places his bird book in the front pocket just in case. Then he grabs his phone charger and a jacket before leaving, making sure the door is locked before making his way out of his dormitory building.

Stan really drew the short end of the stick this school year. Ben and Mike were able to room together, as were Eddie and Bill. Beverly had requested and promptly received a dorm to herself (thus making her dorm the go-to place for group hangouts).

Stan? He and Richie had requested to room together, because if there was one loser Stan was the most close to, it was Richie, by far. Richie and him had been best friends for _years._ Richie doesn’t mind his OCD and knows how to work with Stan no matter what state he was in mentally. It would’ve been perfect, but Richie ended up with a random guy and so did Stan.

Not only did that make Stan unlucky, but he was also condemned to an entirely different dormitory building from the rest of them. Beverly, of course, had to stay in one of the girls’ dorms, but all of the other losers were fortunate enough to get into the same boys’ dormitory building.

Except Stan.

Stan isn’t too bothered by it, at least not anymore. Being able to get outside and walk the short distance to the other building was refreshing.

As Stan approaches their dormitory building, he has to snort at the block of wood still propping one of the doors open. The doors lock immediately once shut and wouldn’t open unless people had their IDs. A lot of the time people forgot them in the dorms if it weren’t a meal time, which was typical. College students are a mess.

After being locked out too many times (eleven; Stan had kept a tally), Richie had personally taken it upon himself to plant the block of wood there. Stan doesn’t know where he _got_ the block of wood. The best part is that it’s still _there_ , even when it was placed there a month into the school year.

Stan pushes open the door and makes sure the block of wood is still in place before making his way up to Mike and Ben’s dorm. The other losers weren’t fortunate enough to be on the same floor: Ben and Mike were on the second, Bill and Eddie were on the first, and Richie was on the fourth. Richie didn’t luck out there, but he always tells them he doesn’t mind the walk up the stairs.

Like Mike told him, his dorm is unlocked. The door is the slightest bit cracked open for him.

Stan knocks lightly on the door anyway, saying, “Hey Mike, it’s Stan.”

“Good morning, Stan! Come in,” Mike responds.

Pushing open the door, Stan shuts it with a soft click. When he turns to face Mike, he finds Mike shifting around his sheets, making his bed and fixing it up before grabbing his bag.

“Alright,” Mike says with a radiant smile, the smile that Richie says ‘makes all the ladies and gents _swoon_.’ “Let’s get some breakfast, I’m famished.”

~

Full with good breakfast food, Mike and Stan settle on Mike’s bed back at his and Ben’s dorm. Mike sits with one leg over the other at the head of the bed, Stan leaning against the wall with his legs resting across Mike’s.

An hour in and Mike is explaining in great detail the nitty gritty of a mental disorder, moving his hands delicately in his lap, laptop laying open against the wall to his right. Stan is listening intently, piecing the information together in his head, and then it all clicks into place and he nods vigorously. Mike smiles when he catches on to his explanation.

“That’s it,” Stan says. He picks up his pen and begins writing. He hums a little. “You know, Mike, you could be a psychologist. A neurologist, even. You have a _huge_ grasp on the brain.”

Mike chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess. History is what I’m all about though.”

Stan nods, finishing his sentence and looking up at him. He maps out the barely visible freckles across Mike’s nose before finding his eyes. The creases around the edges are prominent from how often Mike smiles.

“I have a question,” he blurts out.

Mike tilts his head a little, hands falling back into his lap. He moves his psychology worksheets over onto his laptop, and Stan knows Mike’s full attention is on him now.

With a familiar and warm smile, Mike asks, “What is it?”

It’s then that his brain catches up with his mouth. Stan doesn’t know what he’s saying; doesn’t know exactly why he’s about to tell Mike about last night. He swore to himself he wasn’t going to tell _anyone_. But it’s aggravating him, the question he wants to ask.

He’ll keep out most of the details. Maybe he’ll just get right to the point. He’s always been bad at beating around the bush anyway.

“Have you ever…” Stan feels his face heat up, eyes watering with how fierce it is. He turns his gaze down to his hands, eyes slowly tracing the words written in his notebook. “This is going to be weirdly personal.”

Mike responds, “That’s fine, Stan, I’m all ears. What’s the question?”

Inhaling, Stan closes his eyes and exhales before opening them. He might as well get it out in the open before he chickens out.

“Have you ever…masturbated to any of the losers?”

There, Stan said it. He may not have been decipherable, he was speaking so fast, but now he’s over _that_ hump, and—

When he looks up, Mike is staring at him with wide eyes. Stan feels like his face is bursting into flames, creeping down his neck and licking at his chest. Mike looks taken aback by the question, shocked, and Stan regrets asking. Great. _Perfect._ What an awkward question, why did Stan ask that? God, he’s so _stupid_ —

“Just in general?” Mike inquires, face smoothing back in his usual warm expression. It soothes Stan’s nerves a little, but he’s still embarrassed by the question. “I mean, I’m dating Eddie—”

“No! No, I get that,” Stan exclaims, raising his hands in defense. “I mean, uh. Before that. Or even now still?”

He’s having a hard time deciding what he wants to say, but Mike looks like he understands. He nods with a hum, leaning back against the wall. He crosses his arms, brows furrowing and eyes staring off in the distance in thought. Stan sits and waits anxiously for an answer.

Then Mike turns his gaze back to Stan. “Obviously Eddie.”

“I assumed as much,” Stan dryly replies, trying to be snarky, but his voice wobbles from how embarrassed he still is.

Mike rolls his eyes, moving until he’s sitting with his elbows on his thighs.

“I’ll admit that I’ve thought about all of you guys at least once,” he tells Stan with a sheepish smile, lopsided and showing teeth. “Some more than others.”

Stan nods, pulling his legs up to his chest. He was expecting a similar answer, but actually _getting_ that answer was kind of awkward. Stan doesn’t really know what to do with the information. He knows now that Mike has thought about each of them in that light at least once. He didn’t sound ashamed about it though, just a little embarrassed from saying it out loud.

“So you’ve thought about Bill?” he blurts out, and damn his mouth for moving faster than his brain. This almost never happens. Maybe Stan really _is_ out of it.

Mike raises a brow. “Yeah, a decent number of times. Why? Have you thought about him as well?”

Caught red-handed, Stan whips his head away and zeroes in on Ben’s desk. He knows that Mike knows just from that reaction but doesn’t know how to go about talking about it. He’s gotten this far and now he’s stuck.

Mike is so open about everything. Well, _mostly_ everything, because everyone has to have a few select things they don’t want to share with other people. But Mike is open, understanding in a way not many of the others are capable of, or at least not to his extent.

Mike doesn’t push for him to answer. He simply hums in question as Stan thinks of different ways to rearrange Ben’s desk. He imagines himself pushing the three erasers in the center over, stacking them over next to newly organized pens he’d fix up, papers evened out and folders neatly tucked under them. He itches to go over and fix everything. He doesn’t though, because Ben never said he could and that’d be rude. His hands twitch in his lap.

“Yes,” he finally replies. “I’ve never done it before, I swear, it just _happened_ last night and I’m disgusted with myself because Bill would probably _hate_ me, and—”

He doesn’t realize he’s rambling until he feels Mike press a hand against his arm. He stops short, shifting his gaze until their eyes meet.

“Stan, there’s nothing wrong with what you did,” he tells him. “It happens, and you’ve gotta just let it happen. There’s no benefit to fretting over it.”

“But Bill—”

“And _Bill_ would never hate you over something like that,” Mike continues sternly. “Bill probably isn’t even _capable_ of hating you. You could kill a man and he would just ask if you need help hiding the body, he’s that incapable of hating you.” Stan cracks a smile, laughing as he imagines that scenario. “Yeah, see? Bill could never hate you. He doesn’t hate any of us. Even when Richie and him had that fight about Georgie when we were younger, Bill never hated him, just hated what Richie was saying. I don’t think Bill could ever hate any of us.”

Leaning back against the wall, Stan closes his eyes and thinks. Mike is right. He makes a compelling argument; Bill really could never hate _any_ of them. He never hated Richie when they had that fight. Bill never hated Ben for being the one Beverly wound up with. Bill never hated Eddie, or Mike, or Beverly. Never.

Bill has never hated _Stan_ either. Not when Stan accidentally kept him out too late bird-watching and Bill’s mother was so angry that Bill had disobeyed his set curfew he was grounded for two weeks. Not when Stan yelled at him for being reckless and punching Richie. Not when Stan yelled at him for stuff he can’t even remember, not because he was mad but just out of anger over the small things he can’t control.

Bill certainly didn’t look like he hated him after finding out he was a stripper.

Stan can feel his thoughts contradicting each other. He knows Bill doesn’t hate him; he believes everything Mike said. But it’s hard to know for sure because _Bill_ doesn’t know.

“You good, Stan?” Mike asks.

Stan breathes out through his teeth. “Yeah. I just needed a moment.”

“I understand,” Mike says, and of _course_ he understands, he’s Mike Hanlon. “You should talk to Bill about it. Maybe it’ll ease your conscious.”

“Maybe,” Stan replies.

He knows damn well he isn’t. He’s going to keep it a secret even beyond the grave, and Mike must gauge that from his response too. He hums and slips his hand off Stan’s arm.

“Just know that Bill won’t hate you regardless of how you go about your situation,” he tells Stan. Stan nods. “Now, I think we were in the middle of reviewing?”

Stan nods again, shifting his legs back so his notebook is laying flat across his lap. He smooths out the wrinkles in his pants with a sigh. He’s glad he had that conversation with Mike; he doesn’t feel quite as bad as before, and even learned that Mike has done the same thing. And if Mike has done the same thing, then Stan is pretty sure all the other losers have done it too. That’s a little reassuring.

“Where were we?” he asks, even though he knows _exactly_ where they were, but he likes to hear Mike talk.

Mike smiles at him before picking up his papers. “Well, we were just about to finish up that assignment…”  

Stan focuses on the assignments at hand, the gentle nagging of his reeling thoughts at the back of his conscious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a full month since I've posted! I'm so sorry for the inactivity. :( School is out the upcoming Friday, so the summer is the time for steady, consistent updates! This chapter doesn't really speed along the plot. Some would call it a filler chapter? Regardless, I like it (b/c I love Mike lmao). Hopefully you guys did too!
> 
> If you like the story, talk to me about it on my Tumblr ([its-noma](https://its-noma.tumblr.com/))!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan hates his boss. Bill can't make up his mind and takes advice from Richie (of all people).

A couple of days pass and Stan is working again. At this point he has mostly come to terms with what he did, masturbating thinking about Bill. He’s vowed to himself not to let it bother him any longer, and if it persists to do some sort of meditation to help him focus on what he needs to focus on. 

It also helps that he hasn’t seen Bill in person since. He doesn’t want to say he’s avoiding him, but he feels guilty because it sure  _ feels  _ like the two are avoiding each other. Stan’s only talked to him through a few texts back and forth. Bill’s always so busy. 

That doesn’t stop Stan from thinking about it constantly though. However, he’s more so just embarrassed by it plaguing his mind than the actual act itself at this point (although the actual act still leaves him flustered thinking about it). 

A big problem that correlates with the plaguing of his mind is that it’s interfering with his job. Sure, he still gets the same large crowd every time when he’s up on stage, but whenever his mind slips away, Stan finds himself doing old moves, using moves from past performances when he  _ should  _ be dancing to the new choreographies he’s learning and perfecting. On top of that, even his lap dances are lacking too. 

Stan is lacking focus. He  _ hates  _ lacking focus; it means he’s not in complete control of his head. His brain is too focused on thinking about his experience with Bill. His eyes are constantly turning to stare at the front doors (secretly hoping) to see Bill come in. By himself this time, without Richie. 

But Bill doesn’t, because he said he wouldn’t. 

He knows Bill will never come back, because he respects Stan and wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Stan knows this. He  _ knows _ , but that doesn’t stop him from looking, sneaking glances at the doors and looking out into the crowd for that familiar red hair. 

The next few days go by with Stan thinking, thinking,  _ thinking (hoping)  _ that Bill will show up again. 

That’s also how long it takes for his manager to confront him about his behavior. 

On his way off the stage and into the crowd after his first performance of the night, his manager, Cepko, catches him by the wrist. Stan cringes, hating the man’s dry hands anywhere near him; he hates Cepko in general. What an absolute waste of a man. 

“We need to talk after your shift,” he tells Stan. 

Stan nods, and it’s then that Cepko lets go of his wrist. When his back is turned to him, Stan rubs angrily at his wrist, feeling the need to clean where Cepko touched but knowing he won’t be able to until he’s let more gross older men touch him as well. A  _ huge  _ “perk” of working as a stripper was all the sexual harassment he and his coworkers faced. Fun, right? 

Knowing exactly what Cepko is going to talk to him about, Stan continues working. He’s worried about the conversation. He doesn’t want to be fired, because this job is really helping him get through college and also paying for decent food, not to mention the house him and the others are saving for to live in their senior year and after they graduate. He  _ needs  _ this job and knows that, if he were fired, Cepko would tell other strip clubs that he’s unreliable and to not hire him. He hates how much power Cepko has over him, but he pays well, so Stan has to suffer through it. 

His shift ends no earlier or later than 1:30 AM. He wastes no time in going back to his room and going through his regular routine of cleaning himself up and changing. He doesn’t look at the mirror on the vanity. He hasn’t the past few nights and doesn’t want a reminder of the last time he looked right before he talks with Cepko. 

He slings his bag over his shoulders, his jacket kept with his work clothes for the time being. He turns off his light before closing the door to keep out the others before walking out into the common room. Cepko is waiting for him. Stan looks around and is thankful none of the others aren’t around to witness this talk. Now  _ that’d  _ be embarrassing. 

Cepko stands from sitting in one of the chairs. “Stan.” 

“Mr. Cepko,” Stan responds, feeling the name like cotton on his tongue. He swallows to get the feeling out of his mouth. 

“I don’t want to have to say this more than once,” Cepko tells him. “Your behavior and performance these past few days haven’t been up to par. I don’t want to lose high paying customers because of whatever is going on in that head of yours.” 

Stan nods, wringing his hands together. A nervous ball of tension lodges itself uncomfortably in his stomach. “I understand, Mr. Cepko. I won’t let it happen again.” 

“I  have a lot of other guys who can easily take your place,” Cepko explains icily, glaring at him down the bridge of his nose. “I know how badly you need to keep this job, Stan. Do you really want that?” 

Stan’s insides feel like they’re twisting, heat rising in newfound anger. Of course Cepko would play that card on him; that was the only weakness Cepko knew about him: he needed this job. Why  _ wouldn’t  _ he use it against him? 

But Stan bites his tongue to stop himself from making any snarky comment that’d make Cepko angry. He shakes his head, gripping his bag tightly. 

“No, please don’t fire me,” he says, not quite begging but with a hint of desperation in his voice that he immediately stomps down. “I haven’t been meaning to mess up. I won’t let it happen again, I swear.” 

Cepko eyes him skeptically. Stan can imagine that he’s pondering how else he can keep Stan under his thumb, how else he can berate him and make him beg for forgiveness. Luckily he doesn’t, simply telling him to go home and come back to work tomorrow ready to pick up the slack. 

Stan nods, keeping his eyes trained on the ground for a good ten seconds. When he looks up Cepko is no longer in the room, instead one of his coworkers taking his place as they walk past the curtains. He says goodnight to them before leaving. 

He can’t keep letting what happened between him and Bill get in his way. He needs to stop thinking about it, keep his mind off the memories and phantom touches ghosting along the backs of thighs and a groin against his ass. Needs to stop hearing ghosts of hot breaths against the nape of his neck. Needs to stop thinking about the jacket hanging in his closet. 

So he buries himself in his studies and picks it up at work to distract himself. 

~

Bill knows he promised he wouldn’t go back, but boy does he  _ want  _ to. With every free moment he has that isn’t given to school, work, and the other losers, it’s devoted to thinking about Stan. 

He’s never been so focused on someone like this, so strangely wrapped up in the thought of someone else. Sure, he’s thought about all the losers a great deal. He’s thought about Audra and vice versa before they both realized they were gay and Bill helped her get together with Patty. This just isn’t something he’s able to associate with them. 

He can’t stop thinking about how  _ different  _ Stan was that night. Bill loves and cares about Stan the way he is; appreciates his intellect and warped sense of humor and everything that makes him Stan, but there was just something about how Stan acted that night that he can’t stop thinking about. 

Maybe it was the way he was dressed, shirtless and with a body so well-defined and just not how Bill remembers Stan. He had thought Stan had stayed lanky, but Stan had grown muscle and flexibility.  _ So  _ much flexibility. 

Maybe it was how he danced, sultry yet mysterious with the veil covering his face. How he dipped and climbed that pole with so much finesse Bill wants to ask how long he’s been a stripper. He wants to know everything: why he chose to work as a stripper, how he found  _ Blue Moon _ , how he became so good, what’d he do to  _ practice, where  _ does he practice—

Maybe it had something to do with the lap dance he was given, Stan’s ass pressed snugly against his groin and grinding just so that Bill felt hot and bothered all over. How Stan made that little noise of what had to be  _ intrigue  _ before hooking his legs around him, effectively boxing him in (as if he’d want to leave—) and giving that little laugh of aroused delight. How  _ eager  _ he was dancing on him… 

Whatever it was, Bill can’t stop thinking about it. And the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to go back. Stan’s dancing was heavenly and so well choreographed, and his lap dance was so incredibly sexy and  _ wild.  _ Everything about that night was so wild and different and not at all what Bill expected, but was glad he received. 

Then his judgment catches up with his fantasizing, and Bill decides he will  _ not  _ go back. He knows how secretive Stan is and how much he probably doesn’t want it to get out there that he’s a stripper,  _ especially  _ to the others. He probably doesn’t want Bill to come back because he’s so embarrassed about being seen by one of his friends like that. 

Bill gives himself time to reflect on that night and have a few days of alone time. He takes up a few other people’s shifts when they need to be covered. It gives himself time to think, to reroute his brain to stop thinking about Stan in that light and to go back to just thinking about regular everyday Stan outside of work. For the most part it works. 

Him and Stan only talk a few times throughout those few days. It’s only through texting, and mostly just asking each other how their days have been and lamenting about the other’s actions whenever they’re with one or more of the other losers. Bill is sad when he realizes he’s almost  _ avoiding  _ Stan, but he’s sure Stan appreciates the space after what happened. It’s probably for the best. 

He finally catches a break from picking up people’s shifts on Thursday. By then Bill only thinks about it in passing, and if his mind isn’t on anything else it’s just idly thinking about that night. He hopes Stan is feeling less stressed and upset about the entire situation and has a cool head about it. That’s something he admires about Stan: in almost every situation he’s calm and collected, able to keep a clear head and not fall to tunnel vision. 

Throughout his day Bill begins wondering if he could  _ actually  _ go again. He wonders if he could somehow go back and watch Stan again. Maybe he could offer him a ride home and just show up an hour early to watch him. 

The second option is less creepy. Less dangerous and risky, he knows. But he knows Stan would make sure Bill had the time he got off work drilled into his head, and even then would make him wait in Silver for him to come out.  _ He’d probably just deny the ride in the first place,  _ Bill laments. 

He scowls at himself on his way back to his and Eddie’s dorm after work. He shouldn’t be thinking about this anymore. He shouldn’t be making a  _ master plan  _ on how to go back and act like a pervert towards Stan. That’s incredibly rude and disrespectful. God, what would Stan say if he knew Bill was thinking stuff like this? 

But the more the thinks about it, the more his resolve crumbles. What Stan doesn’t know won’t kill him, right? If there was one thing Richie had taught him, it was to take risks and live in the moment. 

Maybe he’s losing his mind for taking advice from  _ Richie.  _

Maybe this was a risk he had to take. 

He’ll go back one more time. 

Just once. Then he’ll never go back. 

…Yeah, that’s what he’ll do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will actually have Bill back at the strip club and a bit of action in it! Sorry for all the fillers, I just really like writing them.  
> (Also, I love that Cepko is supposedly spelled wrong because he's a wrong, nasty bitch. It makes sense.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill goes back and realizes some things. Half of Bill's paycheck is blown on Taco Bell.

Bill’s decided that he’ll go back on another Friday night. With his classes, he really can’t be going out any other day. That’s why he’s so excited when Friday rolls around—he’s been waiting all  _ week  _ for this. 

He’s thinking he’ll just go back for an hour or two. He won’t stay out too late like last time with Richie. He doesn’t know Stan’s work schedule though, so if he’s not there and comes back Eddie will ask where he went and came back from so fast. It’s really an hour in total of driving, but Eddie worries for him like his mother used to. If that’s the case, he’ll just get Richie some Taco Bell as an excuse for being out. 

Bill wonders how he’ll be able to go back without Stan knowing it’s him. He wonders about all the potential outcomes that could come out of going and getting caught. Would Stan hate him? Would he yell at him for ignoring his wishes? 

He almost tells himself to just not and go to bed. Then he thinks about Richie and his stupid advice and has to, because although Richie’s full of bad ideas he’s tired of always changing his mind. 

_ Just one night _ , he tells himself. 

Bill thumbs through his wardrobe and puts on some dark clothes. It’s going to be hot in there, but he has to keep a low profile. Stan can’t know it’s him. 

For good measure, he throws on a black hoodie and slips a black hat over his head. His hair is always the most annoyingly obvious physical trait that gives him a way. Being able to hide it means he’s one step closer to being in the clear. 

Eddie is thankfully over at Ben and Mike’s dorm. Ben, Richie, and Beverly are over at Beverly’s dorm most likely having a date. Bill’s in the clear to leave without being caught. 

Just to be safe, he texts Eddie and tells him he’s going out and won’t be back until later. He feels like he’s texting his mother, but he hasn’t talked to her in months. 

**Eddie:**

_ im not coming back to the dorm anyway _

_ just make sure the door’s locked _

Bill is completely set to go. He feels like a spy in a movie. 

~

Bill thinks of Stan on the way there. He can’t stop thinking about Stan, and he doesn’t fully understand why that is. He knows he’s obsessing over Stan and his job like a fetish, but there’s something more. He can’t put his finger on it. He’s excited to see Stan in person after the two haven’t seen each other all week, even if they won’t be talking. He just likes  _ seeing  _ Stan and knowing he’s safe. 

The more he tries to figure it out, the more Bill can’t find an answer. He comes to the conclusion that he’s afraid of being caught by Stan and losing his trust forever. He doesn’t want Stan to hate him. It’s funny, how Stan thought he hated him and now Bill’s afraid of the same thing. 

His GPS directs him out of town and to his destination. He feels embarrassed having to use it to get to a  _ strip club _ , but he fell asleep on the way there when Richie was driving. It’s even more embarrassing because it’s in his favorite locations on the maps app (just in case, you know?). 

Just to be sure, he had changed his password so none of the losers would see it. Beverly was the biggest threat, as she’s been able to figure out his password ever since they all got their first phones. 

When he arrives he finds that the parking lot is pretty full. At first he’s bummed out because he has to park a little ways away, but then he realizes it’s actually a good thing because, if Stan leaves to get some air, he won’t notice his truck. Then he can also blend in with the people better if there are more of them. 

Bill hikes up his hood over his cap and walks up to the door. The bouncer from last time is there again, and almost immediately he recognizes him. 

Okay. Maybe he didn’t pick a very good disguise. 

“No Richie?” the guy asks. 

Bill looks for a name tag but doesn’t find one. He says, “Date night.” 

“Lucky bastard,” the bouncer laments with a sigh. 

Bill shrugs. “Dumb luck is always on his s-side for some ruh-r-reason.” 

“You got that right.” 

The bouncer nods, as if completely understanding what Bill means. He wonders just how much about Richie he knows. 

The bouncer must like him, because he doesn’t ask for an ID like he didn’t when he was with Richie. Isn’t it common to ask for an ID? Bill isn’t going to bring it up, even if he  _ is  _ of age and can legally be here. 

He thanks the bouncer and slips inside. 

And  _ fuck  _ is it  _ hot _ . 

He had thought it was hot the first time he was here, but with all the extra people and his heavier clothing, he’s already close to boiling. He hasn’t even been in here for a  _ minute.  _ He’ll probably pass out from heat stroke within an hour, even with the fans blowing in various places. 

This gives Bill more incentive to be quick and see if Stan is here faster. He makes his way to the bar near Stan’s stage and asks the bartender for a bottle of water. The bartender gives him a look that says, “Really? Water in a strip club?” but quickly hands him a bottle anyway. 

Bill turns towards the stage to watch whoever is on it and is disappointed to find that Stan isn’t up there. He frowns and looks around. Off to the side of the stage he sees him, his familiar head of curls giving him away. 

Stan is in a different outfit from last time, and instead of the blue veil over his face he’s wearing a black one. It matches the see-through black crop top that he’s wearing, and god _ damn _ that should  _ not  _ be that _ tight.  _ Every time Stan moves Bill can’t help but watch his chest and arms flex. It’s so extremely captivating Bill is stuck staring. 

His eyes slowly trail down Stan’s body, albeit guiltily, to see what pants he’s wearing. He’s surprised by the amount of leg he can see. He hasn’t seen that much of Stan’s legs since they were kids and all still wore shorts. 

Stan’s wearing shorts all right, but these ones are  _ way  _ more cheeky than when they were kids, just barely going past his ass. Bill watches as quick movements cause the shorts to rise up and expose the cleft of his ass. He has to bite back an instinctual groan when he notices that the shorts are  _ high-waisted  _ too. 

_ They fit him really well _ , is all Bill’s dumbed down brain can think of. He has to look away, because the more he looks, the guiltier he becomes. He takes a long swig of his water, throat dry and suddenly feeling twice as hot as before. 

It’s then that Bill notices what Stan is  _ doing  _ rather than what he’s wearing. Stan is grinding on a guy. 

He’s giving a guy a  _ lap dance.  _

Bill feels his chest tighten for some reason, coals broiling to life in his stomach. Bill doesn’t register the feeling. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. All he does is watch as Stan gyrates and grinds and collects money in his clothes before moving on to the next guy calling out “Blue Bird!” 

Bill watches for a long time. It feels like it’s been hours. Maybe it  _ has  _ been hours, he doesn’t know. His eyes are too glued to Stan he can’t check his watch. 

He feels ridiculously hot and for some reason incredibly  _ angry,  _ but he doesn’t know why. All Stan is doing is his job. Why is Bill mad about that? 

One word pops into his head that he’s  _ sure  _ is in Eddie’s voice. 

_ Jealous.  _

Bill’s eyebrows screw together, lips thinning into a straight line.  _ No,  _ he thinks. He couldn’t possibly be  _ jealous.  _ Jealous of  _ what _ ? 

The more he tries to reason out how he’s feeling, the more angry and confused it makes him. He goes to take another drink of water, something to take his mind away from Stan if only for a moment, before realizing the bottle is empty. Great. 

An idea pops into his head. Maybe not a good idea, but it’s something. 

Since it’s hard to recognize him—he hopes, even though the bouncer recognizing him right away has made him question his disguise—maybe Stan won’t notice if he just…sits down. 

And gets another lap dance. 

Bill reasons that it’s to see why he’s so upset seeing other guys get the same treatment he’d had last time. Maybe he’s just upset it isn’t him being able to feel Stan like that again. 

He sits down in a chair. Pulling on the strings of his hoodie to conceal his face further, he waits patiently until Stan might notice him and come over. 

Surely enough, after a few minutes Stan is in his lap. Bill is relieved that Stan’s back is to him again. That’s good. One look at Bill’s face would definitely give him away. 

He can work with Stan not knowing. 

Bill wishes he wasn’t wearing such thick clothing. He wishes he could press his hands against Stan’s hips and  _ squeeze _ , wishes he could trace his fingertips along the skin and watch Stan’s reactions. He wishes for a lot of things, idly as his brain is too numb to fully understand what he’s thinking. 

Bill hates to admit it, but Richie was right about him being a virgin, and getting a lap dance only for the second time has him hard and close already. It’s kind of embarrassing, actually, but it feels good and it’s not like Bill’s going to suddenly ask Stan to  _ stop.  _

He looks up to stare at the back of Stan’s head. The curls are drenched in sweat but still somehow manage to look good. He can see from little glimpses that Stan’s face is flushed a bright pink, and that pink travels down to his chest and around to the back of his neck. It’s oddly cute, but everything about Stan is cute. Bill stops when he realizes what he just thought. 

‘Stan is always cute.’ Is that a normal thing for him to think? 

…Yeah, Richie calls all of them cute all the time, and so does Beverly. It’s fine if he calls Stan cute. It’s not a big deal. 

His hands twitch at his sides. For some reason it feels like a big deal, and for some reason he desperately wants to touch Stan. 

He keeps his hands to himself. When Stan leaves Bill sighs out of a mixture of relief and longing. He doesn’t get it. 

~

Bill feels incredibly guilty for going again, but he decides to look on the bright side and think that Richie would be proud of him. He wonders immediately after how that’s a bright side, because if Richie’s proud of him then that means he’s done something ridiculously stupid. 

But enough is enough. He’s had his fun. He might as well let Stan work in peace now. 

On his way home he’s humming along to the radio when he remembers that he was jealous of those other guys getting lap dances. He never actually came to a conclusion as to  _ why  _ he was jealous. Bill ponders it the entire way back to the dorm, but even after the drive he can’t find a solid answer that he believes. 

_ Maybe I’ll talk to Ben about it. He’s pretty good at giving advice, _ Bill thinks. He’d ask Mike, but Mike has been pretty busy these days. Giving him a break from being everyone’s personal guidance counselor would probably be good for him. Well, Ben’s like that for everyone too, but Bill knows Ben isn’t busy this weekend. 

Bill’s just getting into town when his phone starts ringing. He glances over at it, lit up in his cup holder, and sees “Trashmouth” as the caller ID. 

Ah, Bill forgot he was going to get him Taco Bell as an excuse for being out. Eddie must’ve texted Ben and told them Bill was out. Richie’s probably wants Taco Bell anyway. 

He answers once he’s at a stoplight. 

“Big Bill!” Richie exclaims. “Eddie told me—” 

“What do you wuh-want?” Bill asks. 

“What?” 

“I just guh-g-got into town, what d-do you want to eat?” 

“Oh, Billy, you know me so well!” Richie cooes, and Bill can imagine him swooning. “We’re practically soulmates!” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Richie sniggers. “Anyway, can you go to Taco Bell? I’m seriously craving one of those Dorito taco things. Also, do they still have those nacho fries because mm mm  _ mm _ ! Those are tasty, man.” 

“I’ll see wuh-w-what they have,” Bill tells him, wishing he wasn’t driving so could write all this down. “Am I on s-speaker?” 

“Yeah,” Richie says. 

“Bev, Ben,” Bill calls, hearing them respond with muffled ‘hello’s. “You guh-g-guys want anything?” 

“Just a cheese quesadilla,” Ben says. “But with that jalapeño sauce in it.” 

Beverly groans loudly and yells, “Whatever’s the grossest thing on the menu. I want it. Get me two of those.” 

Bill laughs. “Sure, okay.” 

“And can you run to the store and get us a pack of that polka dot cow beer shit or whatever?” Richie asks.

“Spotted cow b-beer?” 

“Yeah, that,” Richie confirms. “We ran out at Bev’s place.” 

“Fuh-f-figures. You guys all drunk?” Bill asks. 

“Not Ben. He’s too pure, I guess.” Richie sounds disappointed. “He only ever drinks whenever you or Mike or Stan are here.” He pauses, and all Bill thinks is  _ oh no _ before he exclaims, “Let’s call Stan! Bill, let’s get everyone together!” 

“What? No,” Bill blurts, then has to gather his thoughts because Richie is squawking at him in indignation, and he does  _ not  _ want to have to explain that he knows Stan is working at a strip club tonight and won’t be able to make it. “You guh-guys call Eddie and Mike and I’ll cuh-c-call Stan.”

“Why?” Beverly asks. “You wanna go over to Stan’s dorm and blow him awake?” 

Bill feels his face quickly burning up. “No, because if Ruh-R-Richie calls then he p-probably won’t even answer.” 

“Fair point,” Ben agrees.

“Hey! Rude! Stan  _ so  _ would pick up!” Richie retorts. 

Bill rolls his eyes. “Uh huh. Sure. Ben, cuh-call Mike because if Richie calls Eddie then  _ Eddie  _ won’t puh-pick up.” 

“Am I really that unlikeable?” 

Bill opens his mouth to jokingly say yes, but Richie actually sounds a little hurt. Bill can never gauge when his limit of them teasing him will be. 

“No, you’re p-plenty likeable,” Bill tells him. “Stan just cuh-can’t deal with you when you’re d-d-drunk when he’s trying to sleep, and Eddie d-doesn’t like his dates ruined by you.”

Richie groans but grumbles, “I guess you’re right.” 

Bill smiles. “I’m at Tuh-Taco Bell now. I’ll see you guys in a few.” 

They say goodbye as Bill pulls into a parking space in the Taco Bell parking lot. He might as well go inside rather than try and get everything at the drive thru. 

~

Bills thinks he has everything, checking bags and making sure everyone’s food is what it should be. He hums to himself as he puts his key into the ignition, and is about to turn his truck on when his phone rings. 

Bill looks at the caller ID. 

“Eddie” is calling… 

Bill answers. 

“If you’re at Taco Bell get me something too,” is what Eddie immediately greets him with. 

“Hello to you tuh-t-too, Eddie,” Bill says, a smile creeping onto his face. 

“Yes, hello, good  _ evening,  _ Mr. William Denbrough,” Eddie greets sarcastically. “Now get me a goddamn chicken taco.” 

“Sure, your huh-highness,” Bill says. 

“Also, get Mike a cheesy bean and rice burrito,” Eddie adds. 

Bill rolls his eyes. “Is that all?” 

“Hmm…” Eddie hums in thought. “Get us a few things of chips too. With the cheese!” 

“I better be guh-g-getting paid b-back for all of this,” Bill grumbles. Half of his entire paycheck is about to be blown on one Taco Bell run. 

“Sure, sure. We’ll just tell Richie that his food costed half of what you spent,” Eddie tells him. “Problem solved.” 

Bill has to laugh. “Sounds like a puh-p-plan. I’ll see you guh-guys at Bev’s?” 

“Yep.” 

Ten minutes later finds Bill making sure all the food he has is secure on the floor and seat of the passenger side. He drives down to the liquor store to get Richie’s beer. Once he has everything the others asked for, he makes his way to Beverly’s dorm building and pulls into a space in the parking lot. 

Curious, Bill looks at the time. It’s a little past two in the morning. If Stan always works the same hours, he’d be done by now. He calls his number. 

It goes immediately to voicemail. 

Bill stares at his phone in confused surprise. That’s…weird. Stan’s phone never goes straight to voicemail. He always leaves his phone on in case of an emergency (usually involving Richie). He must still have it turned off from work, Bill reasons. He decides to wait until the song playing on the radio ends and goes to commercials to call again. He turns the radio down. 

It actually rings this time, and suddenly Stan’s saying, “Do you realize how late it is?” 

Bill glances at the digital clock in his truck again. He remembers earlier that night and nods, replying, “Yuh-yeah, it’s u-uh. L-l-late.” His voice is shaking and his stutter is  _ awful.  _ “Uh. I guh-g-got everyone Taco Bell and wuh-we’re all at Bev’s puh-p-place, so…” 

“Taco Bell is  _ disgusting _ .” Stan’s voice sounds like he just scrunched up his nose in repugnance. “I hope you didn’t get me anything.”

Bill smiles fondly. “J-just some water.” 

“Okay, good.” Stan pauses, and then his voice is soft and quiet. “I just got back to my dorm from work.” 

“I know,” Bill tells him before he can stop himself. His heart stops for a second as panic seizes him. “I mean, I a-assumed, yuh-y-you know? I fuh-figured your shifts are cuh-close to the s-s-same time…” 

Stan sounds skeptical. “They are, yes.” 

Silence. Bill fidgets with the hem of his shirt at how uncomfortable it is. 

Stan mumbles, “If you give me a ride I’ll go.” 

“Okay,” Bill says a little too quickly, and he smacks a hand over his face in embarrassment. “I have all the f-food in the truck wuh-w-with me, so I’ll drop it all off wuh-with the others and come g-get you.”

“Perfect,” Stan responds. “I need to shower to get rid of the smell anyway. Pick me up in twenty minutes, I’ll be waiting outside.”

“Okay.” 

Stan hangs up, and it’s then that Bill lets out a groan at how stupid he sounded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm on my summer break and have a lot of time, I'm thinking of posting on Wednesdays as well as my usual Saturdays! Thoughts?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill drops off everyone's Taco Bell and leaves to pick up Stan. Stan's out of his element.

Bill doesn’t know how he’s supposed to just bring up everyone’s food in one trip, but he somehow manages. He has to leave the packs of beer in the truck to do it, but at least everyone’s going to get their food all in one go. He could imagine Richie and Beverly complaining already and had decided that  _ that  _ fate was not for him. 

“BILL!” Richie’s voice is loud as Bill nudges the ajar door open with his foot. “You made it! With our food!” 

“Not all heroes wear capes,” Beverly sings, voice high and tinny as she skips over. “Some wear…all black?” 

Eddie looks him over, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “You look like a drug dealer.” 

“I either guh-give you the food or leave w-w-with it,” Bill says with a glare. “I swear,  _ this  _ is the thanks I guh-get?” 

Richie whines loud enough to make everyone wince. “No, Bill,  _ no _ ! Ignore them! You look perfect.” 

“Damn right I do,” Bill grumbles. 

He sets all the food down on Beverly’s desk and sighs in content to the freedom of his arms. Why did everyone have to order so much fucking Taco Bell? 

As everyone is digging around looking for their food, Bill explains, “I’m guh-g-gonna go pick up Stan. He s-said he’d need a ride if he wuh-were to come over.”

“Oh yeah, he sure needs a  _ ride, _ ” Eddie says, tone suggestive before he snorts. “Hook him up with one, would you, Billy?” 

Bill glares at him. “Mike, come guh-g-get your man.” 

Mike laughs from where he’s getting situated on Beverly’s bed with Ben, “He’s not doing any harm.” 

“Sure, for  _ now, _ ” Bill laments. “Anyway, I’m guh-gonna go get Stan.” 

Before he can leave Richie suddenly exclaims, “Wait, where’s the  _ beer? _ ” He pulls back from the plethora of food to give Bill a hurt look. “Did you forget the  _ beer _ ?” 

Immediately both Eddie and Beverly whine, “Bill!” 

“It’s in my truck, don’t wuh-worry,” Bill replies. “I couldn’t cuh-carry this all in one trip, you know.” 

“It better be,” Beverly says.

Bill rolls his eyes and leaves to go back to his truck. He unlocks it and climbs in, pulling out of the parking lot. He unrolls the windows to air out the smell of Taco Bell. He knows that Beverly’s dorm is going to smell like the place anyway, but Stan would probably appreciate it not being in his truck. 

First he stops back at his dorm to change clothes. He had completely forgotten about what he was wearing until the others pointed it out. If Stan saw him in this outfit, he’d know for sure that Bill had come back. Bill wouldn’t be as concerned if Stan weren’t so observant and had actually taken a second to look him over before giving him a lap dance. 

Bill turns on the light and sets his cap back on his desk before hanging up his hoodie. He considers changing into jeans as he’s pulling on a t-shirt and decides not to risk it. He changes into a pair of sweats. 

He goes to grab his jacket before remembering that Stan still has it. How is he supposed to get his jacket back if Richie and everyone else knows that a stripper (Stan) has it? If he shows up with it on one day, they’d all think he went back to the strip club and hound him for details. 

Grumbling, Bill decides the jacket is a lost cause. That was his favorite too. He grabs one of his flannel shirts and slips it on over his t-shirt, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. Looking himself over in the mirror, he runs a hand through his hair. 

There. Now he doesn’t look like a “drug dealer” (he’ll kill Eddie one day, he swears) or the man Stan would’ve seen at the strip club. He grabs his phone charger and heads back out to his truck, locking the dorm door behind him. 

Stan is waiting outside as he said he would when Bill pulls into the parking lot. He can’t get a spot up front near the doors, deciding instead to roll to a stop beside them. He unlocks the doors and waits for Stan to climb inside. 

The first thing Stan says is, “It smells like shit in here.”

“It’s the Tuh-Taco Bell,” Bill tells him. “I tried airing it out.” 

“ _ Tried  _ is the most important word in that sentence,” Stan laments with a groan. 

Bill rolls his eyes but begins driving back to Beverly’s dorm building anyway. There’s silence except the radio and wind coming in through the windows, and Bill doesn’t like how awkward it is. 

He glances over at Stan, whose hands are pressed together in between his thighs, shoulders scrunched up and eyes focused out the window. He looks so  _ uncomfortable.  _ Is Bill making him uncomfortable? 

He exhales, trying to think of a way to lighten the mood. “So I wuh-w-was thinking—” 

“Do you hate me?” Stan blurts. 

Bill comes to a stop at a stop sign and stares at him in shock. Stan still isn’t looking at him. He reminds Bill of a rubber band, pulled taut and ready to snap at any given moment. 

“What?” 

“Never mind,” Stan mutters, glaring at his reflection in the side mirror. “Forget it. It was stupid. What were you—” 

“No, Stan, wuh-what?” Bill cuts him off, still surprised. “Stan, I don’t huh-hate you. Why wuh-w-would you think that?” 

Stan fidgets, turning further away from him. Bill doesn’t move the truck until someone pulls to a stop behind them, and even then he drives slowly to keep an eye on Stan. 

“My job,” Stan quietly explains, voice uncharacteristically timid. “You—do you think I’m gross because of it?” 

Bill can’t fathom ever hating Stan.  _ Especially  _ over the kind of job he has. “Of cuh-course not, Stan. If it m-makes you good money then I’m huh-happy for you.”

Stan looks helpless. “Even though—”

“Even though  _ nothing _ , Stan. Your job duh-d-doesn’t define you,” Bill sternly tells him.

Stan falls silent, and the two ride on without speaking another word. Bill glances over at him periodically, wondering what’s on his mind. That question was so out of the blue; so uncharacteristic of Stan. 

A light bulb goes off in Bill’s head. 

“Is this b-because we haven’t been tuh-talking lately?” Bill asks. “Because I’m not duh-doing it  _ on purpose  _ or anything. I’ve b-b-been busy—” 

“No! No,” Stan exclaims, and Bill’s surprised yet again by Stan’s behavior. Stan’s  _ never  _ this jittery. “No, I know. It’s just. I don’t know.” 

Stan anxiously rubs his hands together between his thighs. Bill’s eyes follow the movement until he has to look back at the road. 

Bill tries joking, “You say yuh-you know but you also s-say you duh-don’t know. Which is it?” 

Stan glares at him. “Shut up.” 

Bill laughs. They drive for a while longer before they’re pulling into the parking lot. 

It’s only when Bill parks and cuts the engine that Stan murmurs, “Thanks, Bill.” 

“I’m only t-t-telling you the truth, Stan,” Bill tells him. 

Bill feels unsettled by how wrong the word “truth” feels on his tongue. He’s truthful about what he just said, but if he were being  _ truly _ honest he’d come clean about what he did and what he’s  _ continuing  _ to do. 

But he doesn’t, and Stan doesn’t say anything more about the subject. 

Stan looks over in confusion as Bill opens the other door on his side and pulls out the two packs of spotted cow. “Oh my g—is that beer too?” 

“Yep,” Bill responds. 

“I’m guessing they milked you of half your paycheck with all that you’ve gotten them tonight?” Stan asks, grinning at him. 

“You’d b-be right,” Bill bemoans, pretending to tear up. 

Stan frowns. “Will they pay you back?” 

Bill shrugs, shifting the beer to lock his truck. “Mike and Ben, yeah.” 

“I’ll get them to pay you back, don’t worry,” Stan tells him. “I swear, they spend half your paycheck  _ for  _ you almost every time.” 

Bill laughs, agreeing. He says, “Thanks, Stan.” 

The two head into the building with the help of another one of Richie’s godforsaken wood blocks and head upstairs. Bill is happy to see Stan less tense but can’t help but feel even more guilty the more he looks at him. 

He just looked so… _ rigid.  _ Stan always makes sure to keep his posture relaxed so as to keep his body from growing tight and uncomfortable and from possibly pulling something. Bill can’t help but feel like he’s messing up Stan’s routine. 

Bill swallows the lump growing in his throat. For now, he’ll ignore his guilt. Tonight is supposed to be a fun night. He’s not going to ruin it for everyone just because his brain can’t shut up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesdays are a go for posting! I'm super excited!!!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan wakes up the next morning to an unfair predicament. A little chaos ensues.

The following morning, Stan wakes up with a headache and in someone else’s bed.

Oh boy. That can’t be good.

If he didn’t make it home after last night then he must’ve been hammered. Even worse, he _wasn’t_ hammered but had to _babysit._ Well, he’d rather have babysat instead since he doesn’t say shit he’ll regret, unlike when he’s hammered.

He waits for a few minutes to wake up before turning away from the wall he’s facing.

He comes face to face with Bill.

Oh god.

 _Well_ , Stan thinks, _this is. Uh._

Bill shifts in his sleep, and it’s then that Stan notices an arm around his waist. He looks down to see who it’s attached to, even though he knows _exactly_ whose arm it is.

Just as he’d assumed, it’s Bill’s arm.

Stan feels like melting through the mattress. Luckily Bill isn’t awake. Luckily he’s asleep still, face slack and mouth slightly open to breathe.

No snoring.

No drooling.

 _Well,_ Stan thinks, _it’s better than having to sleep beside Eddie or Richie._

Eddie’s the worst snorer ever. It was like a _bear_ had been released in the dorm, it was so loud. You’d be surprised the first time, too, since you wouldn’t expect it from someone like Eddie. Richie had made jokes about it in the past, but Eddie always yelled at him for being a drooler.

But Bill? Bill sleeps like an angel, barely moving and barely making a sound outside of his soft breathing. The more Stan stares at him, the more he gets the urge to move closer into his arms. He doesn’t know why. It might be because Bill is enticingly warm, like a furnace. Him and Mike both, something Stan’s envious of.

Stan peeks his head up to look over Bill’s shoulder. Beverly’s bed is bigger than all of theirs, a queen she personally brought to the dorm herself. Because of this, aside from Bill and him, Ben is splayed over the remaining area of the bed, comfortably sleeping.

On the twin mattress the room originally had, Beverly and Richie are snuggled up together. Eddie and Mike are gone.

 _They must’ve left to have breakfast_ , Stan hums. Breakfast sounds good. What time was it?

Stan looks down at his wrist, only to find that his watch isn’t there. At first he’s alarmed before realizing that he always takes off his watch before going to bed.

 _Good_ , Stan thinks in relief. He must not have been hammered if he were able to properly do that before going to bed.

Instead he lays back down, twisting under Bill’s arm so he’s facing the wall again. How did he not notice Bill’s arm on him the minute he woke up?

Bill always has a watch on his left wrist. When Stan looks he’s not surprised that it’s still there, though it looks glued on. He carefully nudges the watch down to the thinner part of his wrist to keep his circulation going before checking the time. It’s a little past ten.

Stan sighs quietly. _It_ was _past two thirty when he and Bill arrived, so it makes sense,_ he reasons. He’s not doing anything this Saturday anyway. He was probably just going to revise and bird watch as he always does, maybe join the other losers if they were going to do something together.

He settles further under the covers then, deciding that a little more sleep wouldn’t hurt. However, just as Stan’s eyes close, the arm thrown over his waist suddenly tightens. Stan’s eyes shoot open once again as he’s pulled closer to Bill’s chest.

Stan stares, eyes wide, at the wall in front of him. He hadn’t been thinking about what Bill’s arm over him implied. What does he do? _What does he_ do _?_ Is Bill awake? Is he _asleep_? Is he doing this on purpose? Should he try to get away before he makes a fool of himself?

He risks a glance back and finds that Bill’s eyes are closed. His breathing is light against the back of his neck, just as it had been before. Stan drops his head back down into the pillow beneath him. Thank _Christ._ He can’t help but exhale in relief. Maybe it’d be easier if he just got up and walked back to his dorm.

The more he thinks about leaving, however, the more Bill’s warmth coaxes him into staying. In the end he exhales and snuggles back against Bill until they’re almost molded together, craving his warmth. He closes his eyes and falls back asleep.

~

Stan doesn’t know how long he’s asleep until he’s awoken by something hard pressing against the back of his thigh. He’s actually slightly annoyed by it, thinking it’s Bill’s phone that he forgot to take out of his pocket. _He always does that,_ Stan thinks in annoyance, and it always upsets him because Bill could easily damage it in his sleep.

He reaches an arm back and palms around Bill’s waist for his pocket to grab it and lay it under the pillow to keep it safe. After a bit he feels it and quickly latches onto it, not even thinking as he tries pushing it up and out of Bill’s pocket.

A soft groan escapes Bill’s lips just below his ear, and Stan stops moving immediately. Eyes wide, Stan experimentally, against his own judgment, squeezes what _has_ to be—

Bill’s hips jerk up against his ass, and _oh_ yeah _,_ that’s _not_ Bill’s phone.

He quickly lets go and tries scooting forward, but Bill’s arm is firm around his waist. Instead he’s pulled closer, and suddenly he can completely feel all of Bill’s girth. He has to swallow the wad of saliva trapped in the back of his throat when Bill gently rolls his hips forward, panic flooding his system and making his hands clammy.

This can’t be happening. This _can’t_ be happening! _Why_ is this happening! Oh god, Stan’s screwed. He feels like he’s about to be screwed, and he hates the part of himself that’s interested in that.

He’s trapped between the wall and Bill’s body. He’s _trapped!_ How is he going to get out of this? He’s even closer to the wall than he was before, so it’s not like he can shimmy out as easily as he could’ve.

God, he should’ve just left earlier when he had the chance. Why didn’t he leave?

A voice inside his head whispers, “Because you _like_ him being so close to you.”

It sounds like  _ his own voice.  _ Not Eddie’s, not Richie’s.  _ His. _

Oh god, Stan’s going insane.

Maybe he can wake Bill up? Would that help? But then Bill would be embarrassed about having a hard-on against Stan’s ass. That might make things between them even more awkward.

Oh god, oh _god,_ he really has no idea how to get out of this.

Bill’s hips still work against his ass, but luckily they’re just gentle rolls of his hips, nothing too traumatizingly drastic. Stan’s still mortified regardless. Bill’s having a wet dream about someone and is using Stan to relieve himself. Isn’t that horrifying but also depressing? For some reason Stan wishes Bill was at least dreaming of him so it’d ease the blow.

Then he realizes what he just hoped for and has to groan internally at himself for thinking something so stupid. Just as he’s about to start another conflict with himself, the bathroom door opens.

Oh! Stan tilts his head back to see Beverly stepping out, hair damp and half dressed.

“Bev!” Stan calls out quietly. He digs the nails of his fingers into the bare skin of Bill’s hips to still them just as Beverly looks over at them. “Bev, please help me.”

Beverly nods with a knowing smile, walking over to him. “Pull from the arms or legs?”

“Arms, _please_ ,” Stan answers.

He reaches his hands out of the blankets, and Beverly grasps his wrists. Within seconds he’s suddenly pulled up onto the pillow, dangling off the bed. Stan hurries to get himself onto the floor once Beverly lets go of his hands.

“Thank you so much,” he tells her. One mortifying experience over with, and Stan tries to focus on anything but what he just went through.

Beverly smiles. “Of course. You okay?”

“What?” Stan gives her a confused look. “Why?”

“You look spooked. Did you have a nightmare?” Beverly asks.

“Oh. No, I didn’t,” Stan replies, rubbing the back of his neck. What just happened could probably _classify_ as a nightmare, but he wasn’t going to explain it to her.

“Okay.” Beverly gives him a look that he knows means _I’m here if you need to talk._ “Wanna help me wake the others up?”

Stan nods. “Sure.”

She grins, beckoning him to follow her. She steps around the mattress Richie is drooling on and walks the short distance to her desk. Aside from the numerous empty Taco Bell wrappers and some notebooks and folders, there are two blue lanyards. Beverly grabs both of them and hands one to him. Stan’s about to ask what they’re for before noticing the whistle on the end of his.

Oh. This is going to be _fun._ “Bev, you’re evil.”

“And?”

“I love it.”

Beverly grins at him before bringing her whistle to her lips. Stan does the same. Eyes locking, both inhale at the same time. The two nod at each other before blowing into the whistles together, and the loud shrill sound suddenly fills the air. Ben and Bill jump up immediately, wide eyed and surprised.

Bill exclaims, “What the hell?” at the same time Ben whines, “Bev, can you stop doing that? I hate it when you do that.”

Beverly simply gives Ben a sheepish look.

Stan avoids Bill’s eyes, but that doesn’t stop him from instinctively looking down at Bill’s crotch. He finds that Bill’s arm is slung over his lap to hide what Stan knows is there. He averts his gaze quickly. This is so _embarrassing._ Why can’t he just be normal and treat Bill like he would with any of the others?

Richie, on the other hand, simply groans and rolls over towards the wall, burying himself under the blankets. Beverly frowns and marches up to him, each step making a loud tweet with her whistle. She gets down over him, straddling his torso as she continuously tweets at him. Just for the hell of it, Stan falls into sync with her, moving until he’s kneeling in front of the mattress and blowing the whistle directly into an opening in the blankets.

Richie eventually yells, “Alright, al _right_ , I’m awake! Knock it off!”

The two stop, and Stan pulls away from the bed when he sees Richie beginning to uncover himself from the blankets.

“Can’t a guy sleep in every once and a while?” Richie whines. “It’s only—uh.” He glances down at his watch. “It’s only _eleven_! Christ, Bev, let a man sleep!”

Beverly rolls her eyes. “You can sleep when you’re dead, dipshit. Now get up. You promised Ben you’d take him to that new bookstore downtown.”

Ben pipes up from the bed, “He doesn’t have to—”

“Oh _no_ , he’s definitely going to,” Beverly says sternly. “Get up, Tozier.”

“Ugh, but _MoOOOoOm_!” Richie bemoans. The two stare at each other for a minute before Richie sighs, cracking under Beverly’s firm glare. “Fine, fine. I’ll get up.”

“That’s what I thought,” Beverly says.

Stan stands up and moves to put back Beverly’s whistle.

She stops him. “Oh, Stan, you can keep that.”

Stan gives her a confused look. “What? Why?”

Beverly shrugs. “I figured you’d like it.”

“Why would I like a whistle?”

“Because you could annoy Richie with it.”

“Fair point. Thanks, Bev.”

Richie yells, “Hey, fuck off!”

During the time that it takes for Beverly to get Ben and Richie looking presentable so they can go to the bookstore, Stan and Bill leave after gathering their things.

Stan doesn’t mention anything from earlier, even though he desperately wants to. It doesn’t help that Stan can’t stop thinking about it. Anything about Bill he just can’t seem to stop thinking about. He doesn’t understand why; it’s such a sudden development that it _startles_ Stan. This is seriously becoming a problem.

“You wanna guh-g-grab some lunch?” Bill offers.

Stan looks at the time. It’s around noon, he might as well. Even, it’s with Bill. Who would turn down an invitation to lunch with Bill Denbrough?

“Yeah, sure.” Stan nods. “Where do you wanna go?”

Bill shrugs. “Anywhere is fine.” He grins, “I’m n-not the Jewish one huh-here.”

He bursts out laughing when Stan grabs his whistle from around his neck and tweets at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm happy about the "posting twice a week" thing, but since I posted on Wednesday I tricked myself into thinking I was fine for the rest of the week! So I almost forgot to post today.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the story, talk to me about it on my Tumblr ([its-noma](https://its-noma.tumblr.com/))!


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